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BY 


EKMIKE  OWEK. 

<'HAIK  OF  HISTORY  AND  ELOCUTION, 

North  Missouri  Slate  Normal  School. 


SECOND   EDITION 


KiRKSVILLE,    Mo. 

JOURNAL  PRINTING  COMPANY, 
1893. 


GfFTdF 


Copyright,  1801, 

BY 

ERMINE     OWE>. 

ebucATioN  oe^ 


IN  KINDLY  REMEAABRANCE  OF  THE — ■ 

STUDENTS  OF  THE 

NORTH  MISSOURI  STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 
WITH  WHOM  FOR  EIGHT  YEARS 
I  HAVE  BEEN  ASSOCIATED; 
WITH  A  PARTICULARLY  PLEASANT  REGARD 

FOR  THOSE  WHO  HAVE  BEEN 
MEMBERS  OF  MY  ELOCUTION  CLASSES ; 
AND  IN  HONEST  SYMPATHY 

WITH  ALL  WHO  ''WANT  A  PIECE  TO  SPEAK/' 
THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 

KiRKSViLLE,  Mo.,  Jan.  i,  1891. 


9S4217 


TABLE  OF  TON  TENTS. 


Apostrophe  to  Water 1\of.  Fcn/uson  1 

Corao,  or  My  Tiger  Lily Joaquin  Miller  :) 

The  New  South //  W.  Gradi/.  (> 

* '  Margery  " N.  7.  OmphU'  \) 

"  Sharing  Thanksgiving  Dinner  "...  Mrs.  Emma  K  Meg  aire  13 

Baby's  Name School  day  Magazine  I") 

The  Fourth  of  July  at  Jonesville Josiah  Allen's  Wife.  10 

The  Voice  of  the  Helpless Demm'eHt's  Monthly.  '22 

The  Gin  Fiend 2:\ 

First  Soliloquy  of  a  Rutionalislic  Chicken 2") 

The  Sleep-walking  Scene  from  "Macbeth  ". .  .  .Shakespeare.  27 

The  Child-wife ...Charles  Dickens.  27 

Hiawatha's  Wooing Longfellow.  33 

The  Famine Longfellow.  36 

The  Little  Housekeeper 3!) 

The  Present  Age W.  E.  Channing.  41 

Mr.  Horner  on  Grumble  Corner N.  Y.  Independent.  42 

"  Flight  of  the  Angel  Gabriel " Prof.  Ferguson.  44 

Baby George  MacBonald.  45 

J^othiug  to  Wear Wm.  Allen  Butler.  4G 

The  Little  Scheherezade 51 

The  Day  of  Peace E.  T.  Willet.  52 

Uncrowned  among  the  Nations. /.  D.  Finney.  56 

Adown  the  Field  Together. , Louise  UpJiam.  58 

"  The  World  for  Sale  " Ralph  Iloyt.  60 

Thirteen  and  Dolly St.  NicJiolas  Magazine.  62 

Edinburgh  after  Flodden W.  E.  Aytotin.  63 

The  Case  of  Mrs.  Moll Harbour,  in  "Youth's  Companion."  67 

The  Dolls'  Tea  Party 72 

The  Victory  of  the  Frosts Avanelle  Holomes.  73 

Lost  in  the  Sea  Fog 75 


vi  TAIU.K  OF  CO  A  TENTS. 

CACK. 

The  Cliai  iol  iiucc Oen.  Lew  WaU(ir/>.     77 

Wluit  Makes  the  Gmsse-j  Grow? St.  Nicholas  Magazine,     ^^•i. 

Tlic  ricasmes  of  Hope Thomas  Campbell.     6i 

IJoy  Ki  iliau ForceytJte  Willson.     H7 

Tlie  Full  of  Jerusalem Geo.  Croly.     9<) 

The  Hnrvtst Alice  La  Due.     98 

The  Song  of  Steam Q") 

The  liricle  of  flic  Greel^  Isle. .;.,.. Mrs.  Ilemans.    97 

Gates 100 

The  Race  Problem Rejiri/  W.  Grady.  102 

Monnoii   Wife   Number  Ooe,  on  the  Arrival  of  Number 

Tweuly  one /,./?.  Cake.  lOiI 

The  Drenmhind  Sea 108 

Wee  Joukydaidlcs James  Smith.  \{\x 

Lc  Manage  de  Oonvcuaucc I^igh  Hunt.  UM 

^\y  Shii)8  at  Sea Ella  Wheeler  Wilro.t.  1 1 2 

The  Baby's  Pillow Mrs.  S.  T.  Perry.  1 13 

A  Madman's  Manuscript Charles  Dickem.  114 

Before  antl  After  School Wiode  hland  SchoolmatsUr.  118 

Woman  and  the  Rose James  Stewart.  119 

Twickenham  Ferry 121 

Robin 121 

Aunty  Doleful's  Visit  to  Her  Sick  Friend 12.1 

A  Legend  of  Martha's  Vineyard 127 

King  of  Caudy-Land Youth's  Companion.  130 

1  Love,  You  Love 1 80 

The  Province  of  History fames  Ridpath.   181 

Look  Not  upon  the  Wine  \yheii  It  Is  Red. . . .   L.  R.  Phelps.  134 

The  Cheap  Jack Charles  Dickfus.  13o 

Tlie  March  of  Time W.  S.   WaU^tr.  141 

The  Children  and  the  Angel Ceorge  B.  Griffith.  143 

The  Gmndarae's  Story Mrs.  Henry.  144 

The  Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille I^ngf'elloir.  loO 

How  Ruby  Played  the  Piano Geo.  Wm.  Ragby.  l.Vi 

Napoleon 158 

The  Gospel  Harpoon Homiletic  Review.  1«0 

Inasmuch Mary  Glen.   l&Z 

A  King  among  Meu Harriet  M.  Sp^ivlding.  IC") 

Elsie's  Thanksgiving Margaret  K.  SaugxU-r.  Ifi5 

The  Graveyanl  of  the  Ages. 1«8 

Mrs.  Leo  Hunter Chorl'^  /vw./... v    1 70 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  vii 

PAGE. 

The  Elf-child - Jcane^s  W/uicomb  Riley.  173 

Macbeth  and  the  Dagger Shakespeare  174 

Hamlet Ex-Oov.  Davis  of  Minnesota.  175 

Mhacles 177 

The  Battle ScMller.  179 

Mansie  Wauch  at  the  Play David  Moir.  181 

The  Runaway  Princess Emily  H.  Miller.  183 

The  Fate  of  Nina  and  Rienzi 

Adapted  from  Bulwer's  "  Last  of  the  Tribunes."  186 

The  Child  on  the  Judgment  Seat Mrs.  Elizabeth  Charles.  188 

May  Days Waverly  Magazine.  191 

The  Conquered  Banner Father  Ryan.  193 

Robert  E.  Lee B.  H.  Hill.  195 

The  Puritans Macaulay.  195 

Artist  and  Peasant Fannie  L.  Fancher.  198 

Marse  Phil Tliomas  Nelson  Page.  199 

A  Little  Mistake /.  McDermott,  in  "■  Youth's  Companion."  201 

North  and  South OecyrgeG.  Vest.  203 

Pansy  Blossom. 204 

To  the  Memory  of  S.  S.  Cox W.J.  Stone.  206 

Gettysburg George  William  Curtis.  207 

Jack  Frost's  Little  Sister YouUCs  Companion.  209 

A  Democracy  Hateful  to  Philip Demosthenes.  210 

The  End  of  the  Play Wm.  M.  Thackeray.  212 

Brutus  on  the  Death  of  Caesar Shakespeare.  214 

Autumn S.  U.  Dent.  215 

What  Constitutes  a  State  ? Sir  William  Jones.  216 

Baby  Boys 217 

Glaucus  in  the  Roman  Arena 

Adapted  from  Bulwer's  "  La^t  Days  of  Pompeii."  218 

Nydia Adapted  from  Bulwer's  "  Last  Days  of  Pompeii."  221 

At  "The  Literary" 

Jam£8  Whitcomb  Riley,  in^  "  Century  Magazine."  234 

Sent  Back  by  the  Angels 

Langbridge,  in  "  T'he  Voice  Magazine."  206 

Naughty  Girl 231 

The  Way  to  Sleeptown 6'.  W.  Foss.  234 

Iinph-m James  Nicholson.  235 

A  Secret Lizzie  M  ITadley.  237 

'I'he  Stars  and  Stripes B  JL  Hill.  238 

The  Little  Gnome Laura  Richards,  in  "  St.  Nicholas."  •-*40 


viii  TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

PACK. 

Rob,  the  Pauper Will  Carletou.  242 

Buckingham  Foiled Sir  WalUr  ScolL  246 

A  Dream  of  Fair  Women 

....  Adapted  from  Tennyson's  ''Dream  of  Fair  Women."  853 
Index .,,  259 


PBEFAOK 


This  "  Collection  of  Recitations  "  has,  for  its  ap« 
pearance,  the  same  reasons  that  books  of  this  order 
usually  have — the  necessities  and  experiences  of  the 
class-room. 

Partly  for  my  own  convenience,  but  more  par- 
ticularly in  response  to  the  continual  call  made  by 
students  for  something  to  recite,  I  iiave  been  in- 
duced to  prepare  the  present  work,  and  to  present 
in  an  orderly  collection  a  part  of  the  large  number 
of  literary  gems  that  have  accumulated  on  my  hands 
during  my  experience  as  a  teacher. 

To  the  habit  of  clipping  from  newspapers  and 
magazines,  preserving  political  speeches  and  other 
articles  of  merit  in  my  private  scrap-books,  I  am  in- 
debted for  many  of  the  rare  selections  here  found. 
This  does  not  imply,  however,  that  they  are  old  and 
hackneyed,  or  have  *'  lost  their  savor."  On  the  con- 
trary, many  of  the  pieces  appear  for  the  first  time  in 
the  form  of  a  declamation,  and  in  some  cases  hundreds 
of  pages  have  been  read  in  order  to  secure  a  recita- 
tion of,  perhaps,  not  more  than  three  pages.  Students 
will  appreciate  the  fact  that  much  of  this  work  has 
been  done  amid  the  arduous  demands  of  the  class- 
room ;  and  will  derive  an  added  pleasure  in  recogniz- 
ing those  selections  which  have  won  the  medals  in 
the  various  contests. 


PREFACE. 

Recitations  suitable  for  children  are  also  given, 
with  the  desire  of  making  this  book  a  valuable  and 
effective  aid  to  both  teacher  and  pupil  in  Friday 
afternoon  exercises  and  evening  entertainments. 

While  I  feel  justilied  in  calling  this  a  new  book,  I 
have  not  omitted  some  of  those  masterpieces  of 
eloquence  which,  though  old,  never  lose  their  interest, 
nor  grow  stale  by  repetition. 

EuMiNE  Owen, 

Chair  of  Uistorij  and  Elocution, 
North  Mo.  State  Normal  School 


VOICE  C U  LTIJ-RE'  'M& '■' 
READING. 


Heading  is  the  act  of  the  mind  in  getting  thought 
from  the  printed  page.  The  all  important  habit  for 
the  pupil  to  form  is  that  of  never  supposing  that  a 
sentence  has  been  read  before  the  thought  it  suggests 
is  clear  in  his  mind. 

J5^/ocwf /on  is  the  art  of  expressing  thought  and  feel- 
ing by  speech.  Elecution  is  intelligence;  expression 
IS  power. 

The  primary  object  of  elocutionary  training  is  to 
develop  the  power  of  interpreting  language  in  the 
simplest  manner,  with  the  least  effort  and  with  the 
greatest  effect. 

PRINCIPLE  I. 

The  primary  essentials  of  good  reading  and  speak- 
ing are — 

1.  A  clear  understanding,  and  a  keen  appreciation  of 
the  thought  or  sentiment  to  he  expressed.  One  can  never 
make  a  truth  apply  with  force  to  others  unless  he 
feels  its  application  to  himself;  he  must  be  able  to 
enter  into  the  jo}^  the  grief,  the  enthusiasm,  the  in- 
dignation of  others  as  if  it  were  his  own.  Right 
thinking  hud  feeling  is  the  surest  road  to  right  speaking 
and  acting. 

2.  Control  of  the  breath.  Proper  breathing  is  the 
foundation  of  all  voice  work.  Control  of  the  breath 
is  essential  to  easy,  comfortable  speaking.  One  who 
speaks  with  great  effort  soon  wearies  his  audience  as 
well  as  himself.     A  true  artist  never  show^s  effort. 


xii  VOICE  CULTURE 

3.  A  f.orrtct  voice:, .  which  is  distinguished  by  its 
purity,  power,  flex ibillt(^.  The  voice  is  pure  when  all 
the  brvi2ntb  e:yhalod  in  producing  the  vowels  is  vocal- 
ized r.nd  wjion  all  har-djuesn  and  harshness  is  remov- 
ed from  it.  The  voice  is  flexible  when  it  has  ac- 
quired the  power  to  bend  without  breaking; — can 
sweep  from  pitch  to  pitch;  from  quality  to  quality 
without  the  chopping  process.  The  vocal  chords  must 
acquire  a  certain  mechanical  dexterity  before  the 
beautiful  conceptions  we  possess  can  be  communicat- 
ed to  others.  Mechanism  is  an  essential  part  of  all 
the  fine  arts.  Above  everything,  cultivate  the  voice. 
It  is  God's  best  gift  to  man.  The  cultured  voice  is 
sure  to  be  reflex  in  its  action;  for  culture  permeates 
the  entire  man.  See  to  it  that  your  voice  attracts 
rather  than  repels.  Far  before  the  eyes,  or  the 
mouth  or  the  habitual  gesture  as  a  revelation  of 
character  is  the  quality  of  the  voice  and  the  manner 
of  using  it.  It  is  the  first  thing  that  strikes  us  in 
a  new  acquaintance,  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  unerr- 
ing tests  of  good  breeding  and  education.  The 
voice  is  much  more  indicative  of  the  state  of  the 
mind  than  many  people  know  or  allow.  One  of  the 
first  symptoms  of  failing  brain  power  is  indistinct  or 
confused  utterance.  No  idiot  has  a  clear  or  melodi- 
ous voice.  The  harsh  scream  of  mania  is  proverbial, 
and  no  person  of  prompt  or  decided  thought  hesitates 
or  stutters. 

4.  Distinct  articulation  and  enunciation  in  order  to  be 
heard.  ^ 

5.  Right  emphasis  in  order  i(^ndcrstood. 

0.  Right  expression — appropriate  tone  color  and  in- 
flection— in  order  to  he  felt. 

PRINCIPLE  II. 

All  expression  in  nature  and  art  depends  upon 
some  kind  of  light  and  shade,  as  of  form — (architect- 
ure), color  (painting),  or  sound — (music  and  elocu- 
tion).    For  the    lights   and   shades    of  elocution  '^we 


>t 


AND  READING. 


have  these  elements:  force,  emphasis,  pitch,   volume, 
quality,  inflection,  rate,  stress Mark  Bailey. 

PKINCIPLE  III. 

Force  is  the  degree  oi intensity  with  which  sound   is 
^^  ;^uttered  and  may  be  thus  classified: 


1.  Subdued. 


Force.  -{  2.    Moderate. 


3.  Energetic 


Impassioned. 


Expressing  solemn,  pa- 
thetic and  tranquil 
thought. 


Expressing  unemotional 
thought,  narrtive,  di- 
dactic, etc. 


Strong    emotion,     excite- 


ment, grandeur. 


I 


Diff*erent  thoughts,  feelings  and  emotions  demand 
diff'erent  degrees  of  force.  It  is  plain,  therefore,  that 
a  perfect  command  of  every  degree  of  force  is  neces- 
sary to  excellence  in  expression.  Force  is  partly  a 
physical  product  and  partly  mental.  It  is  the  life  of 
oratory  which  gives  it  breath  and  fire  and  power. 
It  is  the  electrical  current  which  smites,  penetrates 
and  thrills.  Mere  noise  or  physical  exertion  should 
not  be  mistaken  for  force.  True  force  includes  the 
idea  of  moral  power  and  is  often  more  manifest  in  a 
certain  stateliness  of  tone  than  in  great  exhibitions 
of  voice  and  manner. 


Example  of  Suhdued  Force. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  hui'rah 


xiv  VOICE  CULTL'RE 

And  the  red  field  was  won; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 

Camly  as  to  a  night's  repose, 
Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Exawple  of  Moderate  Force. 

Give,  oh  give  ns  the  man  who  sings  at  his  work. 
He  will  do  more  in  the  same  tinie:  he  will  do  it  bet- 
ter; he  will  persev^ere  longer.  One  is  scarcely  sensi- 
ble of  fatiglie  whilst  one  marches  to  music.  The 
very  stars  are  said  to  make  harmony  as  they  revolve 
in  their  spheres.  Wondrous  is  the  strength  of  cheer- 
fulness; altogether  past  calculation  its  powers  of  en- 
durance. Effort,  to  be  permanently  useful,  raust  be 
uniformly  joj-ous.  A  spirit  all  sunshine — graceful 
from  very  gladness — beautffnl  because  bright! 

Example  of  Iinpassioncd  Force. 

And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scrotland  here, 
Lowland  or  highland,  far  or  near. 
Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  Jied! 

PRINCIPLE  IV. 

Every  sentence  has  its  emphatic  word  or  words, 
which  are  disiinctiveiy  the  iJtought  words.  Right  em- 
phasis is  good  expression.  It  is  the  soul  ot  elocu- 
tion, the  vital  breath  of  artistic  rendition.  It  is  the 
crucial  test  of  good  reading.  Emphasis  or  the  want 
of  it  may  alter  completel}^  the  meaning  of  words. 
If  a  man  saj' softly  to  himself  as  he  goes  down  the 
street — "fire,  fire,  fire,"  even  those  who  hear  him 
will  not  heed  him.  But  if  he  lift  up  his  voice  and 
shout — firel  fire!  FIRE! — that  means  something  to 
the  point.  Men  who  have  stirred  their  generation 
have  been  men  of  emphasis. 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug. 
Doz'mi]  and  (jnunblituj  o'er  pipe  and   mug. 
A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  dnty,  and  love  was  law. 


AND  READING.  '  xv 

PEINCIPLE  Y. 

A  perfect  command  of  pitch  is  esseutial  to  ^ood 
reading  and  speaking,  because  different  tones  ex- 
press and  awaken  different  thoughts  and  emotions. 
God  has  so  attuned  our  natures  that  a  low,  deep  tone 
suggests  reverence  and  devotion.  The  lowest  tones, 
awe  and  dread.  High  pitch,  excited,  enthusiastic,  ov  joy- 
ous feeling.  The  middle  key,  unimpassioned  thought. 
To  properly  express  these  emotions,  the  reader  or 
speaker  must  be  able  to  vary  his  pitch  at  pleasure. 
More  public  speakers  fail  from  an  incorrect  use  of 
pitch  than  from  any  other  cause. 

E.vample  of  High  Pitch. 

''''Come  back,  come  back,  Iloratius!" 

Loud  cried  the  fathers  all. 
^'Back  LartiusFback  Herminius! 

Back,  ere  the  ruins  fall!''       -     v  • 

Example  Low  Pitch. 

There's  a  burden  ot  grief  on  ttie  bre'ezes  of  spring, 
And  a  sohg  of  regret  from  the  bird  on  its  wing; 
There's  a  pall  on  the  sunshine  and  over  the  flowers, 
And  a  shadow  of  grief  oh  these  spirits  of  our?.J|j^j,  ■ 

PRINCIPLE  VI. 

The  voice  rises  by  grades  when  the  succession  of 
clauses  or  phrases  implies  an  increasing  interest  of 
any  sort. 

The  voice  falls  by  grades  after  an  ascending  series 
or  when  anything  in  the  sentiment  implies,  or  re- 
quires a  falling  climax. 

Example  1. 

Retreating  and  beating  and  meeting  and  sheeting, 
Delaying  and  straying  and  playing  and  spraying, 
Advancing  and  prancing  and  glancing  and  dancing, 
And  rushing  and  flushing  and  brushing  and  gushing, 
And  thumping  and  plumping  and  bumping  and  jumping. 
And  dashing  and  flashing  and  splashing  and  clashing. 


xvi  VOICE  CULTURE 

All  at  once  and  all  o'er  with  a  mighty  uproar, 
And  this  way  the  water  comes  down  at  Ladore! 

Example  2. 

How  they  were  attacked,  how  they  resisted,  how  they  were 
encompassed,  how  they  thruft  back  those  who  were  hurled  on  them 
in  the  black  night,  ^ith  the  north  sea  wind  like  ice  upon  their  faces, 
and  the  loose  African  sand  drifting  up  in  clouds  around  them ;  how 
they  breasted  the  fence  of  steel,  and  the  tempest  of  rage  and  blows 
and  shouts,  and  plunged  away  into  the  shadows  of  the  desolate  plain, 
and  into  the  slaughterous  fury  of  the  rising  wind-storm,  they  could 
never  quite  recall. 

PKINCIPLE  YII. 

Volume  is  the  fullness  or  thinness  of  tone  used. 
Moderate  volume  is  appropriate  for  unemotional  read- 
ing. Thin  voluMe  for  weakness,  affectation,  etc.  Full 
volume  is  an  essential  element  in  the  expression  of 
noble  sentiments.  Full  volume  magnifies,  thin  volume 
minifies  expression. 

E^vample  of  Full  Volume. 

Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates;  and  be  ye  lifted  up  ye  everlasting 
doors;  and  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in! 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory? 

The  Lord,  strong  and  mighty,  the  Lord  mighty  in  battle.  Lift 
up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates;  even  lift  th«m  up  ye  everlasting  doors; 
and  the  King  of  Glory  shall  come  in! 

Who  is  this  King  of  Glory? 

The  Lord  of  hosts;  he  is  the  King,  the  King  of  Glwy! 

"^PEINCIPLE  VIIL 

Quality  has  reference  to  the  kind  of  tone  as  pure  or 
aspirated.  When  all  the  breath  exhaled  in  making 
a  vowel  sound  is  vocalized  and  all  harshness  remov- 
ed from  it,  the  tone  is  pure  in  quality, — otherwise  it 
is  impure.  Quality  may  be  classified  as  follows. 
Each  quality  is  distinguished  by  its  resonamr,  or  the 
place  from  which  the  sound  seen^s  to  come. 


rs/Ui\r//\cXj.^^  READING.  xvii 

f  f  1.  J^HFc  Tone — Eesonance  in  the  center  of  the  nnouth. 

I  Pure  J '^'  ^""^^^"^ — Resonance  in  the  upper  part  of  the  chest. 
I  3.  Oral — Resonance  in  the  front  part  of  the  mouth. 
1^4.  Falsetto — Resonance  in  the  head. 

5»  I  f  1.  Aspirate — The  whisper. 

T  I  2.  Nasal — Resonance  in  the  nose. 

I  ^          1  3-  Pectoral — Resonance  in  the  upper  part  ot  throat. 

(^  [4.  Gutteral — Resonance  in  the  lower  part  of  throat. 

Pure  Tone  is  the  quality  appropriate  for  descriptive 
and  conversational  reading. 

Example. 

Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  it  to  you, —  trip- 
pingly on  the  tonsjue;  but  if  you  mouth  it  as  many  of  our  players 
do,  I  had  as  lief  the  to\vn-3rier  spike  my  line?,  Sait  the  action  to 
the  word;  the  word  to  the  action;  with  this  special  observance — that 
you  overstep  not  the  modesty  of  nature. 

The  Orotund  is  the  highest  perfection  of  the  culti- 
vated voice.  It  is  known  by  its  roundness,  fullness, 
richness  and  sonorous  character.  It  is  used  in  ex- 
pressions of  grandeur,  sublimity,  courage,  patriot- 
ism, etc. 

Example.  ^ 

And  when  I  am  forgotten  as  I  shall  be, 

And  sleep  in  dull  cold  marble  where  no  mention 

Of  me  more  must  be  heard  of,^say  I  taught  thee; 

Say,  Wolsey — that  once  trod  the  ways  of  glory. 

And  sounded  all  the  depths  and  shoals  of  honor — 

Found  thee  a  way,  out  of  his  wreck,  to  rise  in; 

A  sure  and  a  safe  one  though  thy  master  missed  it. 

Mark  but  my  fall,  and  that  that  ruined  me. 

Cromwell,  I  charge  thee,  fling  away  ambition. 

By  that  sin  fell  the  angels;  how  can  man,  then, 

The  image  of  his  maker,  hope  to  win  by  it? 

Love  thyself  last;  cherish  those  hearts  that  hate  ther; 

Corruption  wins  not  more  than  honesty; 

Still  in  thy  right  hand  carry  gentle  peace, 

To  silence  envious  tongues.     Be  just  and  fear  not. 

Let  all  the  ends  thou  aim'st  at  be  thy  country's 

Thy  God's  and  truth's;  then  if  thou  fall'st,  O  Cromwell 

Thou  fall'st  a  blessed  martyr. 


xviii  VOICE  CULTURE 

The  Oral  is  appropriate  for  expressions  of  weakness, 
exhaustion,  affectation  and  the  like. 

Example. 

But  don'Ll  see  a  pretty  church-yard  over  there?  Kiss  me  father; 
kiss  me  twice,  dear  father,  and  lay  me  down  to  rest  upon  that  church- 
yard grass,  so  soft  and  green. 

TJie  Falsetto  is  used  for  mimicry,  for  echoes  and  for 
calls  that  have  come  from  a  distance. 

Uxa?}vple. 

"Hie  over,  hie  over!  you  man  of  the  ferry!" 
By  the  still  waters  side  she  mocked  in  her  voice 

Sweet  and  merry. 
"Hie  over,  hie  over,  you  man  of — you  man  of  the  ferry!" 

The  Aspirate,  is  appropriate  for  secret  thought,  fear, 
etc. 

Example. 

Alack,  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked 
And  'tis  not  done!     The  attempt  and  not  the  deed 
Confounds  us!  Hark!     I  laid  their  daggers  ready; 
He  could  not  miss  them.     Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't! 

The  Pectoral  and  the  Guttural  qualities  are  used  for 
the  expression  of  hate,  scorn,  contempt,  dread,  anger, 
revenge,  defiance  and  horror. 

Example—Pectoral. 

Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead;  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtained  sleep;  now  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's  offering;  and  withered  murder 

With  stealthy  pace  toward  his  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost.     Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps  which  way  they  walk,  for  fonr 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabouts 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time 

That  now  suits  with  it. 


AND  READING.  xix 

Example— Guttural. 

Clarence  is  come, — false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence, — 
That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  of  Tewksburj-; 
Sieze  on  him,  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments! 

The  Nasal,  is  appropriate  for  burlesque  and  mirrucry. 

Example. 

The  birds  can  fly  and  why  cant  1? 
Must  we  give  in  that  the  blue  bird 
An'  phoebe  are  smarter'n  we  be? 
Jest  fold  our  hands,  an'  see  the  swaller 
An'  black  bird  an'  cat  bird  beat  us  holler? 

PRINCIPLE  IX. 

Rate  is  the  rapidity  with  which  words  and  sen- 
tences are  uttered.  It  includes  not  only  the  length 
of  time  occupied  in  the  utterance  of  words,  but  the 
pauses  between  the  words,  and  sentences.  It  is  in 
reality,  a  combination  of  quantity  and  pauses.  Rate 
is  an  element  of  immense  power  and  wonderful  effect 
when  properly  employed.  Every  mood  of  mind, 
every  variety  of  emotion,  every  burst  of  passion  has 
its  appropriate  movement.  Solemni'y  and  pathos  move 
slowly.  Joy  and  enthusiasm  rapidly,  arsjument  moder- 
ately, and  excitement  hurriedly.  The  effect  of  rate  is 
forcibly  illustrated  in  the  slow,  measured  step  of  the 
funeral  march,  the  swift  movement  of  the  merry 
dance,  and  the  firm  but  moderate  step  of  the  deter- 
mined army. 

Example  foT  Rapid  Rate. 

It  was  a  neck  to  neck  race  once  more.  A  roar  like  the  roar  of  the 
sea  broke  from  the  breathless  crowd.  Ten  thousand  throats  rang  as 
thrice  ten  thousand  eyes  watched  the  closing  contest.  The  gigantic 
Chestnut  with  every  massive  sinew  strained  and  swelled,  side  by  side 
with  the  marvelous  grace,  the  shining  flanks,  and  Arabian-like  head 
of  Forest  King.  On  they  flew  like  the  flash  of  an  electric  flame; 
their  breath  hot  in  each  others  nostrils,  while  the  dark"  earth  flew 
beneath  their  stride.  Now  they  near  the  black,  deep,  yawning 
stream,  twelve  feet  if  an  inch,  with  a  high  thorn  hedge  beyond  it. 
One  touch  of  the  spur,  and  Forest  King  rose  at  the  leap,  higher,  and 


XX  VOICE  CULTURE 

higher,  and  higher  in  the  cold  wild  winter  wind;  stakes  and  rails  and 
water  and  thorn  lay  beneath  him,  black  and  yawing  like  a  grave. 
One  last  convulsive  impulse  of  the  gathered  limbs,  one  bound  in 
mid-air,  and  Forest  King  was  over. 

Example  of  Slow  Rate. 

It  must  be  s(> — Plato,  thou  reason'st  well! — 

Else,  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread  and  inward  horror 

Of  falling  into  naught?     Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? — 

*Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  up; 

'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

Eternity! — thou  pleasing  dreadful  thought! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass! 

The  wide,  th'  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me; 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 

Here  wull  I  hold.     If  there's  a  Power  above  us — 

And  that  there  is,  all  nature  cries  aloud 

Through  all  her  works — He  must  delight  in  virtue; 

And  that  which  He  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

But  when?  or  where? 

PRINCIPLE  X. 

Inflections  are  those  peculiar  slides  or  waves  of 
the  voice  heard  on  the  emphatic  words  or  syllables, 
and  constitute  the  most  distinctive  part  of  emphasis 
and  expression.  Inflection  indicates  the  state  of  the 
speaker's  mind;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  gram- 
matical construction  of  the  sentence. 

Positiveness  takes  the  falling  slide — as 

1.  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak. 

2.  Thou  art  the  man. 


AND  READING.  xxi 

Negatives  ideus: — doubtfulness,  uncertainty,  timid- 
ity deference  to  the  will  of  another,  take  the  rising 
glide — as 

1.   Where  are  you  going^  my  pretty  maid? 


2.  Are  you  sure  of  it? 

If  a  negative  idea  be  contrasted  with  a  positive 
idea,  both  slides  are  used. 

The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 

But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 

To  express  what  is  insinuated  or  double  in  mean- 
ing, such  as  iron^^  and  sarcasm  we  have  the  com- 
pound inflection  known  as  the  rising  circumflex,  which 
is  negative  in  nature,  and  the  falling  circumflex,  which 
is  positive  in  character. 

V 

1.  Poor  man!     I  know  he  would  not  be  a  wolf, 

A  A 

But  that  he  sees  the  Roniam  are  are  but  shee]) 

V  A 

He  were  no  lion,  were  not  Romans  hinds. 

2.  Do  you  think  for  one  moment  that   I  fear  you^    Fear  you! 

A  A  A 

You  hothouse  Jlower,  you  si\\eT  p^ieasant,  who  never  did  ought  but 
spread  your  dainty  colors  in  the  sun,  and  never  earned  so  much  as 

A  A 

the  right  to  eat  a  piece  of  black  bread,  if  you  had  your  deserts.   You 

A 

beautiful,  useless,  painted,  exotic,  that  has  every  wind  tempered  to 

V  A  A  ^ 

you,  and  thinks  the  world  only  made  to  bear  the  fall  of  your  dainty 

A 

foot! 


xxii  VOICE  CULTURE 

PEINCIPLE  XL 

Emphasis  is  simple  force.  Stress  is  ibe  manner  of 
applying^^UAiJacAA.  You  may  emphasize  the  right 
^W^Fabut  nrrt  in  the  right  way,  that  is,  not  give  it  the 
proper  stress.  There  are  six  forms  of  stress,  known 
by  the  following  names  and  characteristics: 

IN  READING.  IN  MUSIC. 

1.  Kadlcal  (initial)  >  Explosive. 

2.  Median  (middle)  <>  Swell. 

3.  Terminal  (final)  <  Crescendo. 

4.  Thorough  (through)  =  Organ  tone. 

5.  Compound  (composed  of  two)  >< 

6.  Intermittent  (broken) Tremulo. 

The  radical  stress^  as  the  sign  or  character  indicates^ 
is  somewhat  explosive  in  its  nature.  It  may  be  used 
in  light,  or  conversational  reading;  and  when  judiciously 
done,  lends  life  and  sparkle  to  what  tcould  otherwise  be 
dull,  thus  giving  clearness  and  decision  to  the  utterance. 
It  is  also  used  in  abrupt  or  startling  emotion,  and  in  the 
expression  of  positive  convictions. 

Great  care  should  be  taken  in  the  use  of  this  stress, 
to  avoid  the  tendency  to  the  high,  light,  narrow,  con- 
tracted tones  so  often  used  upon  the  platform  when 
addressing  large  audiences,  thinking  it  necessary  to 
raise  the  pitch  of  the  voice  instead  of  increasing  the 
power.  The  prevailing  school-room  tone  is  a  fair 
sample  of  the  radical  stress  mi&applied.  The  voice 
is  pitched  so  high  as  to  make  it  cold  and  disagreea- 
ble in  its  quality,  being  simply  a  statement  of  facts, 
without  any  heart-element  in  it,  and  much  less  vital- 
ity. This  arises  largely  from  the  fact  that  the 
schools  develop  the  mental  at  the  expense  of  the 
moral  (heart)  and  vital  (body)  growth. 

Exawple  1. 

♦♦To  arms!  to  arms?  to  arms!  they  cry, 

Grasp  the  shield  and  draw  the  sword; 


AND  READING.  xxiii 

Lead  us  to  Phillipa*slord: 
Let  us  conquer  him  or  diel*' 

Example  2. 

Insects  generally,  must  lead  a  jovial  life.  Think  what  it  must  be 
to  lodge  in  a  lily.  Imagine  a  palace  of  ivory  and  pearl,  with  pillars 
of  silver  and  spires  of  gold,  and  exhaling  such  a  perfume  as  never 
arose  from  human  censer.  Fancy,  again  the  fun  of  tucldng  one's 
self  up  for  the  night  in  the  folds  of  a  rose,  rocked  to  sleep  by  the 
gentle  sighs  of  summer  air,  and  nothing  to  do  when  you  awake,  but 
to  wash  yourself  in  a  dewdrop,  and  fall  to  eating  your  bed  clothes. 

The  median  stress,  as  the  character  indicates,  is 
caused  by  swelling  the  tone  in  the  centre  of  the  sound 
of  the  word  to  be  emphasized.  This  represents  the 
moral  or  heart-element  and  should  penetrate  all  oth- 
ers. A  statement  of  facts — exclusively  mental — is, 
of  itself,  cold  and  heartless.  The  purely  mental 
deals  with  the  details;  the  moral  and  the  vital,  never. 
The  median  stress  should  be  used  in  all  selections  of 
an  emotional  nature.  Its  use  in  conversation  shows 
culture  and  refinement;  the  lack  of  it  is  a  sure  indi- 
cation of  the  lack  of  refinement. 

Example  1. 

"Flower  in  the  crannied  wall 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies: 

Hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand 

Little  flower — but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is." 

Exam,ple2. 

Only  their  deeds  and  names  are  ours — but  for  a  century  yet, 
The  dead  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  the  land  shall  not  forget. 
God  send  us  peace!  and  where  for  aye  the  loved  and  lost  recline 
Let  fall,  O  South,  your  leaves  of  palm, — O  North,  your  sprigs 
of  pine. 


xxiv  VOICE  CULTURE 

The  Final  JStress,  as  tbe  character  indicates  is  abrupt 
at  the  close  of  the  sound.  Tt  is  vital  in  its  nature  and 
is  used  to  express  determined  purpose,  stern  rebuke, 
horror,  revenge,  hate  and  similar  passions. 

Blaze  with  your  serried  coluinnh!  I  will  not  bend  the  knee; 
The  shackle  ne'er  again  shall  bind  the  arm  which  now  is  free! 
I  ne'er  will  ask  for  quarter,  and  I  ne'tr  will  be  your  slave; 
But  I'll  swim  the  sea  of  slaughter  till  I  sink  beneath  the  wavel 

The  Thorough  Stress  as  the  character  indicates  is  a 
fullness  and  steadiness  of  tone  used  in  calling  or 
shouting  to  such  a  distance  as  to  necessitate  a  pro- 
longed or  sustained  volume  of  voice. 

E.vamples. 

1 .  Boat  ahoy ! 

2.  Forward  the  Light  Brigade! 

3.  Strike — till  tbe  last  armed  foe  expires! 

The  Intermittent  Stress,  as  the  character  indicates,  is 
broken.  It  is  indicative  of  sadness,  weakness,  ex- 
treme tenderness,  extreme  joy. 

E.vample. 

1.  Oh!  then  I  see  queen  Mab  hath  been  with  you. 
She  comes  in  shape  no  bigger  than  an  agate  stone, 
On  the  forefinger  of  an  alderman, 

Drawn  by  a  team  of  little  antomies 
Athwart  men's  noses  as  they  lie  asleep, 

2.  Dead!  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east. 

And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 
Dead!  both  my  boys!  when  you  sit  at  the  feast, 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free 
Let  none  look  at  me. 

Compound  Stress,  is  as  the  character  indicates,  a 
combination  of  the  radical  and  terminal  stress.  It  is 
closely  allied  to  the  circumflex,  and  like  it  is  used  to 
express  contempt,  irony,  sarcasm  and  similar  emo- 
tions. 


AND  READING.  xxtr 

Example. 

**But  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 
Csasar  cried  'Help  me,  Cassiup,  or  I  sink!' 

"And  this  man 

V  A 

Is  now  become  a  god;  and  Cassius  is 

A 

A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 

A 

If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 

A  A  A 

How  he  did  shake;  't  is  true,  this  god  did  shake: 

A  A 

His  c«ward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly; 

V 

And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 

A 

Did  lose  its  lustre.     I  did  hear  him  groan; 
Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Romans 
Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 
Alas!  it  cried,  'Give  me  some  drink,  Titinius,' 

A 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world 

And  bear  the  palmalono! 

If  in  addition  to  the  complete  mastery  and  perfect  illus- 
tration of  the  foregoing  principles;  one  hsiS  imagination ^ 


xivi  VOICE  CULTURE 

feeling,  artistic  skill,  and,  above  all,  common  sense,  such 
an  one  may  hope  to  become  an  expressive,  effective 
and  pleasing  reader  or  speaker. 

There  must  be  a  lively  imagination,  combined  with 
artistic  skill.  The  picture  must  not  only  be  clear 
and  distinct  in  the  mind  of  the  reader  but  he  must 
be  able  to  hold  it  up  before  his  audience  as  if  it  were 
on  a  canvass,  a  perfect  picture,  with  perfect  lights 
and  shades. 

The  judgment  must  be  sound  else  bombast  may 
be  mistaken  for  eloquence,  rant  for  true  feeling,  and 
perspiration  for  inspiration. 

Finally,  common  sense  in  reading,  as  in  everything 
else  is  a  most  desirable  acquisition.  He  who  hag  it 
not,  'though  his  voice  be  as  strong  as  that  of  a  lion, 
as  gentle  as  that  of  a  dove,  will  never  please.'' 


ELOCUTIONARY  MAXIMS. 


"  There  is  in  souls  a  sympatliy  with  sounds." 

Campbell, 

"  Give  me  no  more  of  body  tlian  shows  soul." 

Browning. 

"  Do  not  mistake  perspiration  for  inspiration." 

Warm  an. 

"There  must  be  impression  before  there  can  be  expression." 

Delsarte. 

'*  Suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the  word  to  the  action,  with  tliis 
special  observance,  that  you  overstep  not  the  modesty  of 
nature." 

Shakespeare. 

*'  Voices  must  go  deeper  into  us  than  other  things.  I  have  often 
fancied  heaven  might  be  made  of  voices." 

George  Eliot. 

*'  The  angels  judge  of  man's  feelings  by  the  tones  of  his  voice.  Of 
his  thoughts  by  his  articulation." 

Sioedenhorci . 

"A  stiff  uniformity  of  speech  is  not  only  displeasing  to  the  ear, 
but  disappointing  in  its  every  effect." 

Beiter(on. 

"  Action  is  the  predominant  power  in  eloquence,  and  its  chief 
and  most  desirable  advantage  lies  in  a  good  voice." 

Cicero, 


READINGS,  RECITATIONS,  AND 
IMPERSONATIONS. 


APOSTROPHE   TO    WATER. 

We  read  of  "  the  wine 

That  smacks  of  the  vine 

That  grows  by  the  beaiUifui  river" — 

But  oh,  did  you  ever  consider  the  glories  of  God's 
pure  water?  Tiie  scieuiist,  looking  back  over  the 
history  of  our  planer,  traces,  with  admiration,  the 
part  which  water  liaih  })layed  in  the  great  drama  of 
life — beautiful  life  upon  the  earth.  Surely  it  liath 
been  the  busiest  thing  in  all  this  worhl  of  ours. 
Evaporated  again  and  again,  it  has  si)ed  as  on  angel 
Avings  to  and  fro  'iwixt  earth  and  heaven,  on  its 
mission  of  love  and  goodness.  Now  down  to  the 
roots  of  the  grasses  it  hath  gone,  to  pump  u[j  the 
green  chloropliyll  that  paints  tlieii*  delicate  fronds: 
then  upon  thestuibeams'  path  of  gold  it  hath  climbed 
to  the  very  clouds  to  paint  the  bow  of  beauty  on  tiie 
sky,  and  to  come  down  to  earth  again  freighted  with 
corn  and  with  abundance  ;  now  down  into  the  earth 
it  goes  to  pump  up  the  sweet  juices  that  fill  the  apple 
fountain,  and  flake  its  delicate  covering  witli  ruby 
and  russet  and  brown ;  now  cooling  the  brow  of  the 
sufferer  when  the  fier}^  fever  is  upon  him  ;  then  up 
to  the  very  heavens  again  to  float  in  mighty  conti- 
nents  of  clouds  to    and   fro    over    the    earth  ;  now 


2  UK  A  />/A7;.s,    /,'  HCl  TA  TIOXS, 

resting  upon  the  brow  of  ilie  bajdized  babe:  now 
down  into  the  ocean  depLhs,  wliere  tlie  nionslei'8  of 
the  deep  are  kenneled  ;  tlieii  u[)  on  silver  winj^s  it 
liath  flown  to  its  home  in  the  sky,  to  Hit  along  eiuudy 
corridors  of  day,  like  some  fair  spirit  winging  its 
way  to  the  celestial  city ;  now  wreathing  the  beanti- 
ful  bridal  veil  that  adorns  fair  blushing  June;  now 
weaving  the  snowy  winding-sheet  that  drapes  the 
dying  year;  now  flashing  in  the  dew-drop;  now  fall- 
ing in  the  rain  ;  now  fretting  the  daii^ty  frostwork 
upon  the  window-pane  ;  now  playing  its  harp  jliiolian 
in  the  far-off  depths  of  the  meadow;  now  thundering 
in  the  billows  that  break  upon  the  shore. 

Thus  on,  ever  on,  in  its  unwearying  work  it  has 
gone  ;  never  resting,  never  lingering,  never  fainting 
on  the  way,  this  mighty  toiler  of  the  ages  hath 
builded  up  the  beauty  and  strength  of  this  fair 
world  of  ours.  Surely  it  hath  been  the  Master 
Builder  of  the  Ages ;  pulling  down  old  continents 
that  have  fulfilled  their  da}',  and  building  up  better 
and  brighter,  while  flinging  over  their  stony  steeps 
the  mantle  of  the  beautiful. 

For  aught  we  know  the  very  water  in  that  goblet 
formed  a  part  of  the  original  creation  ;  that  it  saw 
the  glories  of  Creation's  morning  and  heard  the  voice 
of  Him  who  said,  ''Let  there  be  light!"  It  looked 
upon  the  world  when  like  a  lovely  jewel  it  first 
flashed  fi'om  the  Creator's  fingers.  For  aught  we 
know  the  water  now  flashing  in  that  goblet  may  have 
stood  in  sparkling  dew  upon  Eden's  first  flowers,  or 
rested  upon  the  brow  of  beautiful  Eve,  when,  suffused 
with  blushes,  and  with  pleasure,  she  stood  for  the 
first  time  befoie  her  lordly  husband.  For  aught  we 
know  it  may  have  formed  a  portion  of  those  very 
drops  that  i)attered  on  the  roof  of  the  ark,  or 
formed  the  bow  of  promise  that  g'*P3ted  the  eyes  of 
the  old  [)aLriarch  when  he  came  forth  witii  liis  strange 
caravan,  or  rested  on  the  brow  of  the  ba]^tized  Jesus, 
when  he  came  up  from  Jordan's  wave;  and  on, ever 
on,  ihe^^  will   go  in   their  mi  wearying  woik,  until  at 


AND  IMPKliSONATIONS.  3 

last  tliey  form  u  portion  of  that  cloud  on  w  liich  IJe 
will  appear  "  when  He  cometii  to  judge  the  world."' 

Oh  water  I  beautiful  water  I  Heaven's  beiiisoiis 
rest  upon  thee  I  Thy  home  is  in  tiie  sky  I — far  up  in 
the  l)eautiful  blue,  where  angels  walk  in  robes  of 
starry  light.  Thou  comest  to  the  eaitii  in  many  a 
fairy  form  of  icicle  and  frosted  snow.  And  when,  in 
the  music  of  soft  spring  rain,  1  hear  the  patter  of 
thy  tiny  feet  upon  my  wdndow-pane,  I  bless  thee,  for 
thou  art  full  of  corn  and  abundance.  Thou  comest 
to  earth  on  a  mission  of  love,  flowers  s[)ring  up  in 
thy  footprints.  Wherever  thou  goest  over  the  earth 
it  is  as  though  an  angel  had  shaken  his  glitteiing- 
})inions  and  lieaven's  own  dew  and  sunlight  had 
fallen  around.  Everything  that  breathes  doth  bless 
thee!  Eighteen  hundred  years  have  rolled  around, 
since  some  Oscan  beauty  took  thee  from  the  spark- 
ling spring,  to  bathe  her  dark  e3'es,  or  wash  the  dust 
from  her  black  tresses,  when,  heated  with  love-making 
and  the  sight  of  blood,  she  came  by  night  from  the 
arena  of  the  gladiators.  Tliough  eighteen  hundred 
years  have  passed  away  since  thou  wast  taken  from 
thy  mountain  home,  yet  thou  art  crystal  pure  ; — as 
pure  to  slake  tlie  thirst  of  the  Neapolitan  as  ever 
thou  wast  that  of  Diomede,  or  Glaucus,  or  Nydia 
the  Flower  Girl. 

Oh  water ! — beautiful  water  I  Heaven's  benisons 
rest  upon  thee  ! — Frof.  Ferguson. 


COMO,  OR  MY  TIGER  LILY. 


The  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep, 
Below  the  crags,  as  half  asleep. 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 
The  walls  are  steep,  the  waves  are  deep, 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found. 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  lie  was  drowned? 


4  HE  A  I)  isa  s, .  n  kci  t.  i  rioxs. 

The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  ot  broken  moon 
Just  newly  set  within  tlie  cloven  earth. 
The  ripened  fields  drew  round  a  golden  girth 
Far  up  the  steeps  and  glittered  in  the  noon. 
And  when  the  sun  fell  down  from  leafy  shore, 
Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar. 
The  stars  as  large  as  lilies  flecked  the  bhie, 
From  t)ie  Alps  the  moon  came  wheeling  through 
The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 

A  gala  niglit  it  was — the  seasons  prime, 
We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town. 
To  fair  Milan.     My  friend  and  I,  rode  down 
By  night,  when  grasses  waved  in  rij)pled  rhyme, 
And  so,  wliat  tliemc  but  love  at  such  a  time? 
His  prou'vl  iii)  curled  the  while  with  silent  scorn 
At  thought  of  love,  a:id  then  as  one  forlorn 
He  siglicd.  tiicn  bared  his  temples  dashed  with  gray. 
Then  morked — as  one  cutwc  rn  and  well  blasd. 

A  gorgeous  tiger  lily — flaming  red, 
So  full  of  battle — of  the  trumpet's  flare, 
Of  old-time  passion — upreared  its  head — 
I  galloped  past — I  leaned — I  clutched  it — Then 
From  out  the  long,  strong  grass  I  held  it  high 
And  cried  :  "  Lo,  this  to-night  shall  deck  her  hair, 
Through  all  the  dance  :  And  mark  !  tlie  man  shall  die 
Who  dares  assault  for  good  or  ill  design 
The  Citadel  where  I  shall  set  tliis  sign." 

He  spoke  no  spare  word  all  the  after  while. 
That  scornful,  cohl,  contemptuous  smile  of  his  ! 
And  in  the  hall  the  same  old  hateful  smile  ! 
Why,  better  men  have  died  for  less  insult  than  this  I 
Then  marvel  not  that  when  she  graced  the  floor, 
With  all  the  beauties  gathered  from  the  four 
Far  quarters  of  the  earth,  and  in  her  midniglit  hair 
My  tiger  lily — marvel  not — I  say,  » 

That  he  glared  like  some  wild  beast  well  at  bay. 


AND  IMPIJUSONATIONS.  5 

Oh!  she  shone  fairer  than  summer  star 
Or  curled  sweet  moon  in  middle  destiny. 
Oh,  have  you  loved  and  truly  loved,  and  seen 
Aught  else  the  while  but  your  own  stately  queen? 
Her  presence  it  was  majesty — so  tall — 
Her  proud  development  encompassed  all — 
She  filled  ail  space,  I  sought,  1  saw  but  her. 
I  followed  as  some  fervid  worshipper. 

Adown  the  dance  she  moved  with  matchless  grace, 
The  world — my  world  moved  with  her  ! 
Suddeidy,  I  questioned  who  her  cavalier  might  be. 
'Twas  he  !  his  face  was  leaning  to  her  face. 
I  clutched  my  blade.    I  sprang,  I  caught  my  breath, 
And  so  stood  leaning,  cold,  and  still  as  death. 
And  they  stood  still.     She  blushed,  then  reached  and 

tore 
The  lily  as  she  passed.     All  round  the  floor 
She  strewed  its  iieart  like  bits  of  gushing  gore. 
'Twas  he  said,  ''  heads  not  hearts  were  made  to  break." 
He  taught  me  this  that  night  in  splendid  scorn. 
I  learned  too  well.     The  dance  was  done — Ere  morn 
We  mounted — he  and  I,  but  no  more  spoke — 
And  this  for  woman's  love  !     My  lily,  worn 
In  her  dark  hair  in  pride — to  then  be  torn 
And  trampled  on  for  this  bold  stranger's  sake! 
Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake, 
Two  men  rode  silent  down — but  only  one 
Rode  up  at  morn  to  meet  the  rising  sun. 

The  walls  are  steep,  the  crags  shall  keep 
Their  everlasting  watch  profound. 
The  walls  are  steep,  the  waves  are  deep — 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  red  clad  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drowned  ? 

Joaquin  Miller* 


6  HEADINGS,  HECITATIONS, 


THE  NEW  SOUTH. 

''  There  was  a  South  of  shivery  and  secession, — 
that  South  is  dead. — Tliere  is  a  South  of  union  and 
freedom, — that  South,  thank  God,  is  living,  bieatliing, 
growing  every  hour." 

Dr.  Tahnage  has  drawn  for  you  with  a  master's 
liand  the  picture  of  your  returning  armies.  How,  in 
the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,  they  came  back 
to  3'ou,  with  proud  and  victorious  tread,  reading  their 
glory  in  a  nation's  eyes  !  I  will  tell  you  of  another 
army  tliat  sought  its  home  at  tlie  close  of  tlie  late 
war — an  army  that  marched  home  in  defeat  and  not 
in  victory — in  j^atlios  and  not  in  splendor,  but  in  glory 
that  equalled  yours,  and  to  hearts  as  loving  as  ever 
welcon:ied  heroes  home.  Think  of  tlie  foot-sore  Con- 
federate soldier,  as  ragged,  half-starved,  he  turned 
Ins  face  southward  from  Appomattox,  in  April,  1865. 
Having  fought  to  exhaustion,  he  surrenders  his 
gun,  wrings  the  hands  of  his  comrades  in  silence,  and 
lifting  his  tear-stained  and  pallid  face  for  the  last 
time  to  the  graves  that  dot  the  old  Virginia  hills, 
pulls  his  gray  cap  over  his  brow,  and  begins  the  slow 
and  painful  journey.-  Wliat  does  he  iind?  answer, 
you,  who  went  to  your  homes  eager  to  find  in  the  wel- 
come you  had  justly  earned,  full  payment  for  four 
years' sacrifice.  He  finds  the  home  he  left  so  pros- 
perous and  b(Miuiit'ul  in  ruins,  his  fiirni  devastated,  his 
slaves  free,  his  l);irn  emptv,  his  inoney  worthless,  his 
social  svsU'Ui,  ft'udal  in  its  magnificence,  .swept  away, 
his  comrades  slain,  and  the  burdens  of  others  heavy 
on  his  shoulders.  Crusheti  by  drfeat,  his  very  tra- 
ditions are  gone. 

What  does  he  do — this  hero  in  gray  with  heart  of 
gold?  Si  I  down  in  sullenness  and  despair?  not  for  a 
day.  Surely  iu^d.  mIio  has  stripped  him  of  his  j)ros- 
perity,  inspired   hiiu   in    his  ad\ers;iy.      Uestoration 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  7 

was  swift.  The  soldier  stepped  from  the  trendies 
into  the  furrow :  horses  tliat  had  charoed  federal 
guns  inarched  before  the  plow,  and  lields  that  ran 
red  with  liurnan  blood  in  April,  were  green  with 
harvest  in  June,  and  there  was  little  bitterness  in  all 
this.  Bill  Arp  struck  the  key-note  when  he  said, 
"  Well,  I  killed  as  many  of  them  as  they  did  of  me ; 
and  now  I  am  going  to  work,  and  if  the  Yankees  fool 
with  me  any  more  I  will  whip  'em  again." 

Never  was  nobler  duty  confided  to  human  hands 
than  the  uplifting  and  upbuilding  of  the  prostrate 
and  bleeding  South,  misguided  perhaps,  but  beautiful 
in  her  suffering  —  honest,  brave,  and  generous 
always. 

When  Lee  surrendered,  the  South  became,  and 
has  since  been  loyal  to  this  Uni^n.  She  fought  hard 
enough  to  know  she  was  whipped,  and  in  the  toad's 
head  of  defeat  she  found  her  jewel.  The  shackles 
that  had  held  lier  in  narrow  limitations  fell  forever, 
when  the  shackles  of  the  negro  slave  were  broken. 
Under  the  old  regime,  the  negroes  were  slaves  to  the 
South,  the  South  was  a  slave  to  the  system.  The  old 
South  rested  everything  on  slavery  and  agriculture, 
unconscious  that  these  could  neither  give  nor  main- 
tain healthy  growth.  The  new  South  presents  a  per- 
fect democracy — a  social  system  compact,  and 
closely  knitted,  less  splendid  on  the  surface,  but 
stronger  at  the  core,  a  hundred  farms  for  every  plan- 
tation, fifty  homes  for  every  palace. 

The  new  South  is  enamored  of  her  work.  Her 
soul  is  stirred  with  the  breath  of  a  new  life.  The 
light  of  a  grander  day  is  falling  fair  on  her  face.  She 
is  thrilling  with  the  consciousness  of  glowing  power 
and  prosperity,  as  she  stands  upright  and  full 
statured,  breathing  the  keen  air  and  looking  out 
upon  the  expanding  horizon,  she  understands  that  her 
emancipation  came  because  in  the  inscrutable  wisdom 
of  God  her  honest  purpose  was  crossed  and  herbrave 
armies  were  beaten. 

The   South  has  nothing  for  which  to  apologize. 


8  READINGS,  IIECITATIONS, 

She  believes  that  the  hite  struggle  between  the 
States  was  war  and  not  rebellion,  revolution  and  not 
conspiracy,  and  that  her  convictions  were  as  lionest 
as  yours.  She  lias  nothing  to  take  back.  In  my 
native  town  of  Athens  is  a  monument  tliat  cr(»wnsiis 
central  hills — a  plain,  white  shaft.  Deep  cut  into 
its  shining  side  is  a  name  dear  to  me  above  the  names 
of  men, — that  of  a  brave  an'd  simple  man,  who  died 
in  brave  nnd  simple  failli.  Not  for  all  the  glories  of 
New  Pviigland,  from  Plymouth  liock  all  the  way 
down,  would  I  exchange  the  heritage  he  left  me  in 
liis  soldier's  death.  To  the  foot  of  that  shaft  1  shad 
send  my  children's  children  to  reverence  him  who 
ennobled  their  names  with  his  heroic  blood.  But,  sir, 
speaking  from  the  shadow  of  that  memory,  wliich  1 
honor  as  I  do  nothing  else  on  earth,  I  say  that  the 
cause  in  which  lie  suffered,  and  for  which  he  gave 
liis  life,  was  adjudged  by  liigher  and  fuller  wisdom 
than  his  or  mine.  And  I  am  glad  that  the  omnis- 
cient God  held  the  balance  of  battle  in  His  Almighty 
hand ;  that  human  slavery  was  swept  from  the 
American  soil,  and  the  American  union  saved  from 
the  wreck  of  war. 

This  message,  Mr.  President,  comes  to  you  from 
consecrated  ground.  The  very  soil  of  the  State  of 
Georgia  is  as  sacred  as  a  battle  ground  of  the  Ile{)ub- 
lic,aiul  hallowed  to  you  by  the  blood  of  your  brothers, 
■who  died  for  your  victory,  and  hallowed  to  us  by  the 
blood  of  those,  who  died  hopeless,  but  undaunted  in 
defeat — sacred  soil  to  all  of  us — rich  with  memories 
that  make  us  purer  and  stronger  and  better.  Speak- 
ing, an  eloquent  witness  in  its  white  peace  and  pros- 
perity to  the  indissoluble  union  of  the  American  States 
and  the  imperishable  brotherhood  of  the  American 
people. 

Now  what  answer  has  New  England  to  this  mes- 
sage ?  Will  she  permit  the  prejudice  of  war  to  re- 
main in  the  hearts  of  the  conquerors  wiien  it  has  died 
in  the  hearts  of  the  conquered  ?  Will  she  transmit 
this  prejudice  to  tiie  next  generation  that  in  their 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  9 

hearts  which  never  felt  tlie  geJierous  ardor  of  con- 
flict it  may  perpetuate  itself?  Will  she  withiiold, 
save  in  strained  courtesy,  the  hand  which  straigliD 
from  his  soldier's  heart  Graut  offered  to  J^eo  at  Ap- 
pomattox? Will  siie  make  tlie  vision  of  a  restored 
and  iuippy  people,  which  gatheied  about  the  couch 
of  your  dying  captain,  filling  his  heart  with  grace, 
totiching  his  lips  with  praise  aud  glorifying  his  path 
to  the  grave — will  she  make  this  vision,  on  which  the 
last  sigli  of  his  expiring  sonl  breathed  a  benediction, 
a  delusion  and  a  cheat  ?  If  she  does,  the  South  must 
accept  with  dignity  its  refusal.  If  she  does  not,  then 
standing,  heart  to  heart  and  clasping  hands,  we  will 
remain  citizens  of  the  same  country ;  members  of 
the  same  government,  all  united  now  and  united 
forever. — IL  W.  Qrady, 


«  MARGERY." 

{Prize  Recitation^  June,  1S87.    N.  Mo.  State  Normal.) 

I  met  my  brother  at  the  train 

And  kissed  him  welcome  home  again, 

O,  I  was  proud  his  face  to  scan — 

Home  from  the  dreadful  Rapidan  ! 

Two  years  had  passed — two  years  that  day 

Since  he  had  led  his  men  away ; 

Bright  o'er  his  head  the  banner  streamed, 

Bright  on  his  sword  the  sunlight  gleamed. 

We  saw  them,  faintly  througli  our  tears. 

We  heard  them  send  back  answering  cheers ; 

And  now,  in  flush  of  joy  and  pride. 

Once  more  I  had  him  at  my  side. 

Across  the  green  we  strolled  along. 

And  all  the  air  seemed  full  of  song. 

As  happy  hundreds  flocked  about 

Rejoicing  in  the  muster  out. 

Just  then  a  wail  fell  on  the  ear — 

A  wail  it  thrilled  the  soul  to  hear — 


10  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

"  Charley  !  Charley  ! 
Come  home  to  me !    Come  home  to  me  !  " 


"  What's  that  ?  "  cried  Tom,  and  clutched  my  arm 

As  it  to  hold  me  back  from  harm — 

"  What  is  that  dreadful  wailing,  Kate? 

Wretched — heart-broken — desolate  ! " 

"  Why  Tom,"  said  I,  "  that's  Margery  Hall, 

We  all  have  learned  her  hopeless  call, 

She  married  Charley  just  the  day 

Before  his  regiment  marclied  away  ; 

At  Christmas  he  would  come  again, 

He  said,  as  fled  the  flying  train. 

She  waited  trembling  for  the  hour 

And  prayed  that  God  would  give  her  power 

To  bear  the  burden  of  her  joy 

When  she  should  greet  her  gallant  boy. 

How  sluggishly  the  dull  months  passed  I 

But  all  the  days  crept  by  at  last 

And  Cliristmas  morning  came  ;  she  drest 

In  all  her  brightest  things  and  best, 

And  ran  to  see  the  train  come  in. 

Oh  !     Here  upon  this  bulletin 

She  read : 

'  Killed  by  a  rifle  ball 
In  charge  on  Wagner — Sergeant  Hall.' 

"  She  fell  and  lay  as  she  were  dead, 
And  then  it  was  her  reason  fled ; 
On  this  one  point — on  others  sane — 
She  looks  for  Charley  home  again. 
She  watches  near  this  bulletin 
Each  time  the  trains  come  in. 
She  never  smiles,  she  never  weeps, 
But  still  her  tearless  vigil  keeps. 
And  always  says  ;    '  He's  on  the  way, 
And  he  is  due  at  home — to-day  ! ' 
And  gazes  at  the  morning  sun 
Counting  her  fingers,  one  by  one. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS,  11 

O,  it  is  pitiful  to  see 
How  grandly  patient  she  can  be  ; 
She  preens  lierself  with  ribbons  rare 
And  braids  fresh  roses  in  her  hair, 
Then  with  serene  and  tranquil  brow 
Sings,  Tom,  just  as  you  hear  her  now: 

'  Charley  !   Charley  ! 
Come  home  to  me  !     Come  home  to  me  !'* 

*'Poor  girl,"  said  Tom,  and  shook  his  head; 

"Poor  girl— for  Sergeant  Hall  is  dead. 

I  saw  him  on  that  fearful  night ; 

He  was  the  foremost  in  the  fight 

The  Colonel  called  for  men  to  leap 

And  storm  Fort  Wagner  up  the  steep: 

One  stepped  out  first,  alert  and  tall, 

And  grasped  the  colors — Sergeant  Hall. 

As  he  was  waiting  there,  he  set 

Above  the  flag  a  silk  rosette, 

And  then  he  smiled  and  said  to  me, 

*For  lovG;  home  and  Margery  ! ' 

Tliey  faced  the  storm  of  shot  and  shell 

And  sprang  into  that  blazing  hell — 

'  Forward  ! '  I  seem  to  see  them  yet ; 

The  flag  is  on  the  parapet. 

It  waves  exultant  on  the  crest, 

Falls  inward  ! — God  knows  the  rest ! 

Poor  fellow  ! — where  the  squadron  wheeled, 

I  saw  him  buried  on  the  field  ! " 

As  brother  Tom  rehearsed  the  tale 
I  marked  beyond  him,  wan  and  pale, 
Poor  ^largely  bending  close  to  hear, 
And  then  she  shouted,  loud  and  clear : 

"  Charley !  Charley  ! 
Come  home  to  me  !     Come  home  to  me  I  " 
"  I  saw  a  similar  name  to-day," 
Said  Tom,  "  There  is  a  man,  they  say, 
Whose  name  is  Hall,  and  went  from  hers 
Has  been  in  Andersonville  a  year ; 


12  READINGS,  RECITATIONS. 

Is  now  escaped,  unci  on  his  way " 

A  shout !     A  stalwart  man. 
Haggard  and  grim,  and  brown  with  tan, 
Came  bursting  through  the  startled  crowd 
And  swung  liis  arms,  and  cried  aloud  ; 
"  Stand  back  !     I  hear  her  sweet  voice  call  I 
Where's  Margery  ?     I  am  Sergeant  Halll  '* 

O,  joy  too  great  for  life  !  one  cry 
She  uttered,  piercing,  wild  and  high. 
Then  all  unconscious,  dropped  to  rest, 
Pallid  and  pulseless  on  his  breast. 
To  rest ! 

To  rest ! 

Her  eyelids  close ; 
Her  weary  soul  has  found  repose. 
How  calm  her  face  !     How  peaceful  there 
The  roses  sleep  within  her  hair  I 
Her  weary  waiting  all  is  o'er. 
Her  gallant  boy  she'll  greet  no  more. 
Till  there  upon  that  brighter  shore, 
Again  he'll  clasp  her — heart  to  heart, 
Eejoicing  in  the  muster  out. 
Till  then  from  the  parapet  of  Heaven, 
She'll  call  unto  him,  morn  and  eve : 

"  Charley !     Charley ! 
Come  home  to  me  I     Come  home  to  me ! " 

K  Y,  araphio. 


"  SHARING  THANKSGIVING  DINNER." 

All !  yes,  it  was  hard,  and  what  made  it  harder, 
Was  poor  Granny's  sickness.     A  destitute  larder — 
Thanksgiving  Day  here  and  no  prospect  ahead 
Of  a  Thanksgiving  feast — what  wonder  that  Ned, 
Who'd   learned   a   few   things   in   Dame   Poverty's 

school 
(Could  whistle  when  hungry,  if  that  was  the  rule), 


AND  IMPERSOy Allocs.  13 

What  wonder  his  courage  had  quite  given  way, 
With  Granny  unable  to  get  up  that  day  ? 

He  sat  on  the  steps  where  the  sunbeams  could  find 

him, 
His  jacket  was  thin,  and  the  small  room  behind 
Was  chill,  lacking  fire.     The  poor  child  sat  musing, 
Like  wise  philosophers,  like  them  abusing 
The  power  which  to  some  offers  only  distresses, 
While  others  less  worthy  gain  fortune's  caresses. 

His  heart  grew  rebellious,  and  Granny's  good  teaching 

Was  fading  away  ;  just  as  he  was  reaching 

The  point  wliere  blind  fate  takes  the  place  of  God's 

will-^ 
To  the  grown,  malcontent ;  to  Ned,  it  was  still 
Just  poor  folk's  had  luck — 'twas  just  then   Granny 

said, 
*'Why  are  you  so  quiet?     Come  here  to  me,  Ned.'* 

The  old  voice  was  feeble  ;  the  face  was  serene 
With  patience  and  hope,  but  tlie  boy's  troubled  mien 
Gave  pain  to  the  kind  heart.     '*  Kneel  here  by  my 

bed. 
And  ask  the  dear  Father  to  send  us  some  bread." 
"  And  turkey  and  jelly  ?  "  cried  Ned,  hungrily, 
"  Ah !  just  as  He  pleases  that  portion  must  be, 
But  bread  He  has  promised,  that  promise  we  plead. 
And  He  will  feed  us  wlio  the  ravens  doth  feed." 

Ned's  petition  was  o'er,  he  again  sought  the  sun. 
With  a  crust  from  the  cupboard — alas !  the  last  one.. 
But  now  a  sweet  fragrance  pervaded  the  air; 
A  fragrance  unnoticed  before  the  short  prayer. 
Attracted  by  odors  tliat  tlirilled  his  starved  senses, 
He   sniffed   like    a   blood-hound,    then   leaping   the 

fences 
That  shut  in  tlie  farm-house  of  rich  neighbor  Moore, 
Quick  gained  he  the  back-yard.     The  kitchen's  wide 

door 


U  UK  AD  ma. 'J,  liLCfTATIONS, 

Stood  ajar,  thus  disclosiu^^-  a  glimpse,  to  the  child 
Of  dinner  pieparing  tliut  set  iiim  half  wild. 
One  was  beating  fresh  eggs,  one  stirring  white  cake. 
While  turkey  and  chicken  stood  ready  to  bake. 
Pumpkin-pies,  rich  and  spicy,  were   ranged  side   by 

side. 
With  an  odorous  mass  in  the  pudding-bag  tied. 

While  gazing  and  longing,  behold,  the  Moore  geese 
Had  gathered  around  liim,  to  capture  a  piece 
Of  tlie  crust  lie  still  held.     He  shoved  them  away 
But  eagerly  still  they  returned  to  the  fray. 
Till,  liow,  who  can  tell  us  ?  one  goose  most  alert 
Had  knocked  down  and  trampled  his  crust  in  tli© 
dirt. 

A  cry  of  despair!     All  the  dinner  he  had 
In  a  moment  was  gone,  the  poor  little  lad 
Fell  prone  on  the  ground  in  a  passion  of  grief ; 
Too  crazed  to  observe  that  the  prayed-for-relief 
Was  here  at  his  hand,  or  that  old  farmer  Moore 
Had  watched  the  whole  scene  from  his  sitting-room 
door. 

"Hello!  what's  the  matter !     Come  ;  get  up  my  lad, 
The  f/oose  stole  your  dinner?     Well,  now,  that's  too 

bad  ! 
You  don't  mean  to  say  all  the  dinner  you  had  ? 
Well,  well,  which  goose  was  it?     That  one  by  the 

fence ; 
He  shall  pay  for  it  then  ;  and  since  he's  ]io  sense 
To  restore  what  ho  stole,  my  poor  little  man. 
Do  you  just  take  the  goose,  and  then  yoti  can  i)lan 
To  get  back  your  dinner  the  best  w^ay  you  can." 

He  led  the  child  wondering  before  Grandma  Moore : 
"This'child  is  lialf  starved,  wife,  and  right  at  our 

door  : 
Thanksgiving  to  us,  yes,  but  think,  can  it  be 
A  liappy  Thanksgiving  to  poor  widow  Lee?*' 


AND  IMPEliSOXATIONS.  15 

''  God  forgive  iiie,  I  pi'ny,"  the  good  woman  said, 
"For  iiegiecting  the  widow  and  poor  little  Ned. 
?vly  joy  was  so  great  that  I  clean,  clean  forgot 
Tlie  sorrow  and  hunger  about  nie.     For  wliat, 
With  George  home  from  college   and  Nanny's  new 

baby. 
My  lieart's  brimming  over  with  thaiddulness.  Maybe 
It's  not  too  late  yet."' 

Well,  before  you  could  ask  it 
A  liappy-faced  boy  and  a  bountiful  basket. 
Each    idled  witli  the  best  by  dear,  kind  Grandma 

Moore, 
Were    lielping   each    other    toward    Granny    Lee*s 

door : 
'Twas  turkey  and  jelly — but  wluit  need  to  say  ? 
'Twas  more  than  Ned  dreamed  of  for  Thanksgiving 

Day, 
And  we  all  must  admit  that  Ned  was  the  winner 
When  he  ate  up  the  goose  to  get  back  his  dinner. 

Mrs.  Emma  U.  Meguire. 


BABY'S  NAME. 

I  would  like  to  know  the  baby's  name,  if  there  is  one 
can  tell  it. 

But  I  haven't  seen  a  person  yet,  who  could  begin  to 
spell  it, 

rd  like  to  give  the  child  a  present,  a  fork  or  spoon, 
you  know. 

But  it  ought  to  have  initials  on  it,  that's  what  pro- 
vokes me  so, 

But  its  father  calls  it  "  Popsy's  tarlin,"  "e'tweetents 
and  e'deary 

Mustn't  pull  e  tishes  so  on  Popsy's  head  e  geary." 

Its  mother  calls  it  "  Itty  amtin."  ''  Peshus  ilty 
teshure 

Wassa  masser  itty  vu  ?     Mamma's  pitty  peshure  !  " 


16  HEADINGS,  HECITAriONS, 

And  all  the  children  call  it  "Tweet !  "  "  turn  to  itty 

buvver ! 
Nevey  mindey,  don't  e  ty,  it  tan  do  to  muvver!  " 
And  all  its  aunties  say  it  is,  ''a  pessus  itty  teeter  ! 
A  itty 'ump  of 'ovviness,  an  nuffin  tan  be  feeter!" 

Its  grandma  says,  "  Of  all  e  pets  in  all  e  wairl  so 

Avide ; 
A  is'nt  one  so  dood  as  iss,  so  brave  and  dignified!  " 
Now  is  there  one  can  tell  me  wliat  all  this  gibberish 

means  ? 
Nothing  but  nonsense  for  his  pains,  is  what  an  uncle 

gleans, 
But  if  you  can  tell  the  baby's  name  from  all  that 

you  have  heard. 
You'll  have  an  uncle's  heartfelt    thanks    if   you'll 

please  to  send  him  word. 

School-daij  Magazine, 


THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY  AT  JONESVILLE. 

The  celebration  was  held  in  Josiah's  sugarbush, 
an'  I  meant  to  be  on  the  ground  in  good  season ; 
for  when  I  have  jobs  I  dread,  I'm  for  takiu  'em  by 
the  forelock,  an'  graplin'  witli  'em  at  once.  But 
as  I  was  bakin'  my  last  j)lum-puddin'  an'  chicken- 
pie,  tlie  folks  begun  to  stream  by.  I'd  no  idee  so 
many  folks  could  be  scairt  up  in  Jonesville.  Thinks 
I  to  myself,  I  wonder  if  they'd  flock  out  that  way  to 
a  prayer-meetin'.  But  they  kep'  a  comin',  all  kinds 
of  folks  in  all  kinds  of  vehicles,  from  a  six  horse 
team,  down  to  peaceable  lookin'  men  au'  wimmou 
drawin'  baby-wagons. 

There  was  a  stagiu'  built  in  'most  the  center  of 
the  grove  for  the  leadin'  men  of  Jonesville,  and 
some  board  seats  all  round  it  for  the  folks  to  set  on. 
As  Josiah  owned  tlie  ground  lie  was  invited  to  set 
up  onto  the  stagin'  an'  as  I  glanced  up  at  that  man 


Ai\I)  IMPERSONATIONS.  17 

every  little  while  throughout  the  da}',  thinks  I 
proudly  to  myselt",  "There  may  be  nobler  lookin' 
nieu  there,  and  men  that  would  weigh  more  by  the 
steelyards,  but  there  hain't  a  man  there  that's  got 
on  a  whiter  shirt  bosom  than  Josiah  Allen  has." 

About  noon  Prof.  Aspire  Todd  walked  slowly 
into  the  ground  arm-in-arm  with  the  editor  of  "The 
Gimlet,"  old  Mr.  Bobbet  follerin'  close  behind.  As 
they  stepped  up  onto  the  stagin'  the  band  struck 
up  "  Hail  to  the  chief,  that  in  triumph  advances," 
as  soon  as  it  stopped  playin'  the  editor  came  forrard 
an'  said  :  "  Fellow-citizens  of  Jonesville,  and  the  ad- 
jacent and  surroundin'  country,  I  have  the  honor 
of  introducin'  to  you  the  orator  of  the  day — Prof. 
Aspire  Todd,  Esq." 

Prof.  Todd  then  came  forrard  and  made  a  low  bow : 
"Brethren  and  sisters  of  Jonesville,  friends  and 
patrons  of  Liberty,  in  mountin'  upon  this  theater  I 
have  thereby  signified  my  desire  and  willingness  to 
address  you.  I  am  not  here,  fellow-citizens,  to  outrage 
your  feelins'  by  triflin'  remarks.  I  am  not  here,  male 
patrons,  to  lead  your  noble,  and  you,  female  patrons, 
your  tender,  footsteps  into  the  flowery  fields  of  use- 
less rhetorical  eloquence.  I  am  not  here,  I  trust,  in 
mephitical,  and  I  hope  not  in  a  mentorial  manner. 
But  I  am  here  to  present  a  few  plain  truths,  in  a 
manner  suitable  to  the  most  illimitable  comprehen- 
sion. My  friends,  we  are,  in  one  sense,  but  tenni- 
folious  blossoms  of  life;  or  if  you  ^vill  pardon  the 
tergiversation,  we  are  all  but  mineratin'  tennirosters 
hoverin'  upon  an  illinition  of  mythoplasm."  "Jess 
so ! "  shouted  old  Bobbet — who  was  a  settin'  on  a 
bench  right  under  the  speaker's  stand — "  Jess  so  !  so 
we  be  ! '' 

Prof.  Todd  looked  down  on  him  in  a  troubled  kind 
of  a  way,  an'  then  went  on :  "  If  we  are  content  to 
moulder  out  our  existence  like  fibrous  veticulated 
polypus,  clingin'  to  the  crustaceous  courts  of  custom, 
if  we  cling  not  like  soarin'  prytanes  to  the  phantoms 
that  lower  their  scepters  down  through  the  murky 


18  READINGS,  liECITATlONS, 

waves  of  retrogression,  endeavoriu'  to  lure  us  upward 
in  the  scale  of  progressive  bein' — in  what  degree  do 
we  differ  from  tlie  acalphia  ?  Let  us,  then,  noble 
brethren,  in  the  broad  lield  of  liunianit}',  let  us  rise. 
Let  us  prove  that  mind  is  superior  to  matter — Let  us 
prove  ourselves  superior  to  the  acalphia." 

"  Yes,  less  prove  ourselves." 

Prof.  Todd  stopped  stone  still,  an'  liis  face  got  as 
red  as  blood,  lie  drinked  several  swallers  of  water 
and  then  went  on  till  most  the  last,  when  he  wanted 
the  people  of  Jonesville  to  "  drown  black  care  in  the 
deep  waters  of  oblivion,  not  mind  her  mad  throes  of 
dissolvin'  bein',  but  let  the  deep  waters  cover  her  black 
liead  an'  march  onward  !  "  and  then  the  old  gentle- 
man forgot  himself,  an'  jumped  right  up  and  liollered 
out — "  Yes,  drown  the  black  cat  !  Hold  lier  head 
under  !  There'll  be  cats  enough  left  after  she's  gone  ! 
Do  as  he  tells  ye — drown  the  black  cat !  " 

The  next  speaker  was  a  large  healthy-look  in'  man 
who  talked  against  wimmen's  ricfhts.    He  didn't  brinor 

o  o  o 

up  no  new  argyments  but  talked  jest  as  they  all  do 
who  oi)pose  'em — about  wimmen  outragin'  and  de- 
stroyin'  their  modesty,  by  bein'  seen  in  the  same 
street  with  a  man  once  every  'lection  da}-.  He  talked 
grand  about  how  woman's  weakness,  aroused  all  the 
shivelry  an' nobility  of  amau'snatei* !  and  how  it  was 
his  dearest  and  most  sacred  })rivilege  an' ]ia[)[)incss  to 
pertect  her  from  even  a  summer's  breeze,  if  it  should 
dare  to  blow  too  hard  onto  her  beloved  and  delicate 
form.  Why,  before  he  liad  got  through,  a  stranger 
from  another  world,  who  liadn't  never  seen  a  Avoman, 
wouldn't  a'  had  the  least  idea  that  they  was  made  out 
of  the  same  kind  of  clay  that  a  man  was,  but  lie'd  a' 
thought  they  was  made  out  o'  some  sort  o'  thin  gauze, 
which  was  liable  to  blow  away  au}^  minute,  an'  that 
man's  only  employment  was  to  stand  an'  watch  'em 
for  fear  some  zei)hyr'd  get  tlie  advantage  of  'em.  He 
called  wimmen'  every  i)retty  name  he  could  think  of, 
an'  says  he,  a  wavin'  his  hands  in  a  rapid  eloquence, 
"shall  these  weak,  helpless  creatures,  these  angels. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  19 

these  seraphims,  these  sweetly  cooiii'  doves,  whose 
only  mission  is  to  sweetly  coo — shall  these  rainbows, 
tliese  posies  vote  ?  Never  I  my  brethren,  will  we  lay 
such  hardships  onto  them.    Never,  never,  never!  *' 

Just  as  the  folks  was  a  concludin'  their  frantic 
cheers  over  his  speech,  a  thin,  feeble-lookin'  woman 
come  by  where  1  sat,  drawin'  a  large  baby-wagon 
with  two  children  in  it.  She  also  carried  one  in  lier 
arms,  that  was  lame.  She  looked  so  beat  out,  and  so 
ready  to  drop  down,  that  I  got  up  and  gave  her  my 
seat,  and  says  I,  "  You  look  ready  to  fall  down." 

"  Am  I  too  late — to  hear — my  husband's — speech  ?  " 

''  Is  that  your  husband  that's  a  laughin'  an'  talkin' 
with  that  air  prelty  gal  up  there  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Wall,  he's  jest  finished."  She  looked  ready  to 
cry.  An'  as  I  took  the  lame  child  out  of  her  breakin' 
arms,  says  I,  "  This  is  too  much  for  you,  mum." 
"  Oh,"  says  she, ''  I  wouldn't  mind  gettin'  'em  onto  the 
ground  ;  I  hain't  hed  only  three  miles  to  bring  'em. 
That  wouldn't  be  much  if  it  wasn't  for  the  work  I 
hed  to  do  before  I  come." 

"  AVhy,  what  did  you  liave  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  hed  to  fix  him  off,  an'  brush  his  clothes, 
an'  black  his  boots ;  and  then  I  did  up  all  my  work, 
an'  then  I  hed  to  go  out  and  lay  up  six  lengths  o' 
fence.  The  cattla  got  into  the  corn  yesterday  and  he 
was  so  busy  writin'  his  piece  he  conhln't  fix  it — -and 
then  I  hed  to  mend  his  thick  coat,  in  the  wagon  there, 
he  didn't  know  but  ho  should  Avant  it  to  wear  home. 
He  knew  he  wasgoin'  to  make  agreat  exertion  to-day 
and  he  thought  he  should  sweat  some,  lie's  dietful 
easy  to  take  cold." 

*' Why  didn't  he  help  you  along  with  these 'ere 
children ! "  says  T.  ''  Oh,  he  said  he  had  to  make 
a  great  effort,  an'  he  wanted  to  have  his  mind  fi-ee 
and  clear.  He  is  one  of  the  kind  that  can't  have 
their  minds  trammeled." 

''It  would  do  him  good  to  be  trammeled  hard." 

"  Oh,  nium,  don't  speak  so  of  him." 


20  READINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  his  doin's  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  You  would  too,  mum,  if  you  knew  how 
beautiful  he  can  talk." 

I  said  no  more  ;  for  it  is  a  rule  of  my  life,  not  to 
make  no  disturbances  in  families.  But  the  looks  I 
cast  at  him  and  that  air  pretty  gal,  was  cold  enough 
to  a'  froze  'em  both  into  a  male  and  female  glazier. 

The  editor  then  came  forward  and  said,  "  Before  we 
leave  this  festive  grove,  I  am  requested  to  announce 
that  a  poem  will  be  read  by  one  of  the  fair  young 
ladies  of  our  town,  which  is  dedicated  to  the  God- 
dess of  Liberty."  Sophrony  Gowdey  then  came  for- 
rard  an'  recited  the  follerin'  lines. 

"  Before  all  causes  East  or  West, 
I  love  the  Liberty  cause  the  best, 

I  love  its  cheerful  greetin's. 
No  joys  on  earth  can  e'er  compare 
With  those  pure  pleasures  that  we  share 

At  Jonesville  Liberty  greetin's meetin't— - 

Greet  no, — raeetin's. 
At  Jonesville  Liberty  meetin's. 

To  all  the  world  I  give  my  liand, 

My  heart  is  with  that  chosen  band, 
The  Jonesville  Liberty  Brothers — 
The  Jonesville  Liberty  Brothers — 

May  every  land  preserved  be, 

Each  land  that  dotes  on  Liberty, 
Jonesville  before  all  others." 

Lawyer  Nugent  thengot  up  and  said:  "That 
whereas— the  speakin'  was  now  foreclosed,  he  mo- 
tioned they  should  adjourn  sine  die  to  the  dinner  table. 
The  dinner  was  good,  but  there  Avas  an  awful  crowd 
round  the  tables  an'  I  was  glad  I  wore  my  old  lawn 
dress ;  for  the  children  was  thick,  and  so  was  the 
bread  and  butter  an'  sass  of  all  kinds.  I  jest  plunged 
right  into  the  heat  o'  the  battle,  as  you  may  say,  an' 
the  spots  on  my  dress  skirt  would  a'  been  too  much 
for  anybody  that  couldn't  count  forty. 

There  was  a  number  o'  pieces  o'  toast  drunk  durin' 
dinner.  I  can't  remember  'em  all,  but  among  'em 
was  these  :  '•  Tlve  Eagle  of  Liberty  t — may  her  quilli 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  21 

lengthen  till  tlie  proud  shadder  of  her  wings  shall 
sweetly  rest  on  every  land." 

"  The  4th  of  July : — The  star  which  our  fathers 
tore  from  the  ferocious  mane  of  the  howling  lion  of 
England,  and  set  in  tlie  calm  and  majestic  brow  of 
E  riiuibus  Unum.  May  it  gleam  brighter  and 
brighter,  till  the  lion  shall  hide  his  dazzled  eyes  and 
cower  like  a  stricken  lamb  at  the  feet  of  E  Pluribus." 

The  last  piece  o'  toast  was  Lawyer  Nugent's,  an'  I 
s'i)Ose  when  he  got  it  off,  he  thought  lie  was  a  gettin' 
off  suLliin'  great.  ''The  fair  sect: — First  in  war, 
first  in  peace,  and  first  in  the  hearts  of  their  country- 
men. May  them  that  love  the  aforesaid  flourish  like 
a  green  bay  berry  tree  ;  whereas — niay  them  that 
hate  'em  dwindle  down  into  as  near  nuthin'  as  the 
bunnits  of  the  aforesaid." 

I  went  home  a  little  while  before  the  picnic  broke, 
an'  if  there  ever  was  a  beat-out  creetur,  I  was.  I 
jest  drapped  my  dilapidated  form  into  a  rocking-chair, 
an  says  I,  "  There  needn't  be  another  word  said ; 
I'll  never  go  to  another  4th  o'  July  as  long  as  my 
name  is  Josiah  Allen's  Wife." 

"  You  haint  patriotic  enough,  Samantha,  you  don't 
love  your  country." 

"  What  good's  it  done  to  the  country  to  hev  me  all 
torn  to  pieces  ?  Look  at  my  dress !  Look  at  my 
bun  nit  and  cape !  Anj^body  ought  to  be  iron-clad 
to  stand  it !     Look,  at  my  dishes,"  says  L 

"  I  guess  the  old  heroes  of  the  Revolution  went 
through  more'n  that." 

"  Wall,  I  hain't  an  old  hero." 

"  Wall,  ye  can  honor  'em,  can't  ye?  " 

"  Honor  'em  !  Josiah  Allen,  what  good's  it  done  to 
old  Mr.  Lafayette  to  hev  my  new  earthen  pie-plates 
all  smashed  to  bits?  What  good  has  it  done  to 
Tliomas  Jefferson  to  have  my  lawn  dress  torn  off  me 
this  way  ?  What  honor  has  it  been  to  George  Wash- 
ington to  have  my  straw  bunnit  flatted  down  tight 
to  my  head?  I  am  sick  of  all  this  talk  about 
honorin'  these  old  heroes,  and  goin'  through  all  these 


li  EA  DIS  (J .%  liECI  TA  TIOK  - 


performances  to  })lea.se  'em;  fer  if  they're  in  Jieaveri 
they  can  get  along  without  hearin'  the  Jonesville 
brass  band  phiy,  and  if  they  ain't  tliey  are  probably 
where  fireworks  hain't  much  of  a  rarity. — Josiah 
Allen's  Wife. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  HELPLESS. 

I  hear  a  wail  from  the  woodland  ; 

A  cry  from  the  forests  dim  ; 
A  sound  of  woe  from  the  sweet  hedge-row, 

From  the  willows  and  reeds  that  rim 
The  sedgy  pools ;  from  the  meadow  grass, 

I  hear  the  fitful  cry,  alas  ! 

It  drowns  the  throb  of  music, 

The  laughter  of  childhood  sweet, 

It  seems  to  rise  to  the  very  skies, 
As  I  walk  the  crowded  street ; 

When  I  wait  on  God  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
1  hear  the  sad  wail  even  there. 

'Tis  the  cry  of  the  orphaned  nestlings, 
'Tis  the  wail  of  the  bird  that  sings 

His  song  of  grace  in  the  archer's  face ; 
'Tis  the  flutter  of  broken  wings ; 

'Tis  the  voice  of  lielplessness — tlie  cry 
Of  many  a  woodland  tragedy. 

O,  lovely,  unthinking  maiden, 

The  wing  that  adorns  your  hat 

Has  the  radiance  rare,  that  God  placed  there. 
But  I  see  in  the  place  of  that, 

A  mockery  pitiful,  deep,  and  sad. 
Of  all  things  happy  and  glad. 

0 1  mothei*,  you  clasp  your  darling, 

Close  to  your  loving  breast ; 
Think  of  that  other,  that  tender  mother, 

Brooding  upon  her  nestl 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  23 

In  the  little  cliirp  from  the  field,  and  wood, 
Does  no  sonnd  touch  your  motherhood? 

Tliafc  little  dead  bird  on  your  bonnet, 

Is  it  worth  the  cruel  wrong  ; 
The  beauty  you  wear  so  proudly  there, 

Is  the  price  of  the  silenced  song  ; 
The  humming  bird  band  on  your  velvet  dress 

Mocks  your  womanly  tenderness. 

I  hear  a  cry  from  the  woodbind, 

A  voice  from  the  forest  dim ; 
A  sound  of  woe  from  the  sweet  hedgerow, 

From  the  willows  and  reeds  that  rim 
The  sedgy  pool ;  from  the  meadow  grass 

I  hear  the  pitiful  sound,  alas ! 

Can  you  not  hear  it,  my  sister, 

Above  the  heartless  behest, 
Of  fashion  that  stands,  with  cruel  hands. 

Despoiling  the  songful  nest  ? 
Above  the  voice  have  you  never  heard 

The  voice  of  the  helpless,  hunted  bird  ? 

Demoresfs  Monthly, 


THE  GIN  FIEND. 


The  Uin  Fiend  cast  his  eyes  abroad, 

And  look'd  o'er  all  the  land, 
And  number'd  his  myriad  worshippers 

With  his  bird-like,  long  right  hand. 
He  took  his  place  in  the  teeming  street, 

And  watched  the  people  go ; 
Around  and  about,  with  a  buzz  and  a  shout, 

Forever  to  and  fro ; 


24  READINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

"  And  it's  hip  !  *'  said  the  Gin  Fiend,  "hip,  hurra  I 

For  the  multitudes  I  see, 
Who  offer  themselves  in  siicnfice. 

And  die  for  tlie  love  of  me  ! " 

II. 

There  stood  a  woman  on  a  bridge, 

She  was  old,  but  not  witli  years — 
Old  with  excess,  and  passion,  and  pain. 

And  she  wept  remorseful  tears 
As  she  gave  to  her  babe  her  milkless  breast ; 

Then,  goaded  by  its  cry. 
Made  a  desperate  leap  in  the  river  deep, 

In  the  sight  of  the  passers-by  ! 
"And  it's  hip  !"  said  tlie  Gin  Fiend,  "hip,  hurra  I 

She  sinks  ; — but  let  her  be  ! 
In  life  or  death,  whatever  she  did. 

Was  all  for  the  love  of  me  !  " 

III. 

There  watcli'd  another  by  the  hearth. 

With  sullen  face  and  thin  ; 
She  utter'd  words  of  scorn  and  hate 

To  one  that  stagger'd  in. 
Long  had  she  watcli'd,  and  when  he  came 

His  thoughts  were  bent  on  blood ; 
lie  could  not  brook  her  taunting  look. 

And  he  slew  her  where  she  stood. 
"  And  it's  hip  !  "  said  the  Gin  Fiend,  "  hip,  hurra  I 

My  right  good  friend  is  he  ; 
He  hath  slain  his  wife,  he  hath  given  his  life, 

And  all  for  the  love  of  me !  " 

IV. 

And  every  day,  in  the  crowded  way. 

He  takes  his  fearful  stand. 
And  numbers  Ids  myriad  worshippers 

With  his  bird-like,  long  right  hand; 


AND  impj::hsomations.  25 

And  every  day,  the  weak  and  strong, 

Widows,  and  maids,  and  wives, 
Blood-wann,  blood-cold,  young  men  and  old, 

Offer  the  Fiend  their  lives. 
"And  it's  hip  !  "  he  says,  ^'  hip  !  liip !  hurra ! 

For  the  multitudes  I  see ; 
That  sell  their  souls  for  the  burning  drink, 

And  die  for  the  love  of  me  !  " 


FIRST   SOLILOQUY   OF  A  RATIONALISTIC 
CHICKEN. 

Most  strange  !   most  queer  ! 

Though  so  excellent  a  change  ! 

Shades  of  the  prison  house,  ye  disappear ; 

My  fettered  thouglits  have  won  a  wider  range 

And  like  my  legs  are  free. 

Free  now,  to  pry  and  poke  and  peep  and  peer, 

And  make  these  mysteries  out. 

Shall  a  free-lhinking  chicken  live  in  doubt? 

Yet  now  in  doubt  undoubtedly  I  am. 

This  problem's  very  lieavy  on  my  mind. 

And  I'm  not  one  to  either  shirk  or  sham, 

I  won't  be  blinded,  and  I  won't  be  blind. 

Now  let  me  see.     First  I  would  know 

How  I  did  get  in  there,  then 

Where  was  I  of  yore  ? 

Besides,  why  didn't  I  get  out  before  ? 

Dear  me  !     Here  are  three  puzzles 

Out  of  plenty  more. 

Enough  to  give  me  pip  upon  the  brain, 

But  let  me  think  again, 

How  do  I  know  I  ever  was  inside  ? 

Now  I  reflect,  it  is,  I  do  maintain, 

Less  than  my  reason  and  beneath  my  pride 

To  think  that  I  could  dwell 

In  such  a  paltry,  miserable  cell 

As  that  old  shell. 


26  READINGS,  It  EC  IT  AT  IONS, 

Of  course  I  couldn't. 

How  could  I  have  been 

Body  and  beak  and  feather,  legs  and  wings. 

And  my  deep  heart's  sublime  imaginings 

In  there  ? 

I  meet  the  notion  with  profound  disdain, 

It's  quite  incredible,  and  I  declare — 

And  I'm  a  chicken  you  can't  deceive — 

What  I  can't  understand  I  won't  believe. 

Where  did  I  come  from  then  ? 

Ah,  where  indeed ! 

That  is  a  riddle  monstrous  hard  to  read, 

I  have  it !     Why,  of  course, 

All  things  are  molded  by  some  plastic  force. 

Out  of  some  atom,  somewhere  up  in  space. 

Fortuitously  concurrent  anyhow, 

There  now,  that's  plain 

As  the  beak  upon  my  face. 

What's  that  I  hear  ? 

My  mother  cackling  at  me? 

Just  her  way 

So  ignorant  and  prejudiced,  I  say. 

So  far  behind  the  wisdom  of  the  day. 

What's  old,  I  can't  revere. 

Hark  at  her ! 

"  You're  a  silly  chick,  my  dear. 

That's  quite  as  plain,  alack, 

As  is  the  piece  of  shell  upon  your  back !  '* 

How  bigoted !     Upon  my  back  indeed  I 

I  don't  believe  it's  there ! 

For  I  can't  see  it. 

And  I  do  declare, 

For  all  her  fond  deceivin', 

What  I  can't  see^  I  never  will  believe  in, 

And  that's  all  I 


AND  IJirJi^U^SUSA  I'lONS.  21 


THE   SLEEP-WALKING    SCENE    FROM 
^'  MACBETH." 

(Enter  Lady  Macbeth  rubbing  her  hayids.') 

Yet  here's  a  spot !  Out !  out,  damned  spot !  out, 
I  say !  One, — two, — why  then  'tis  time  to  do  it ! 
Fie,  my  lord,  fie  !  a  soldier  and  afeard  ?  What  need 
we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  there's  none  can  call  our 
power  to  account  ? — Yet  who  would  liave  thought 
the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in  him? 

The  Thane  of  Fife  liad  a  wife — Where  is  she  now  ? 
What !  Will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean?  No  more 
o'  that !  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that !  You  mar  all 
with  this  starting ! 

Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still!  All  the  per- 
fumes of  Arabia  cannot  sweeten  this  little  hand ! 
Oh  !  oh  !  oh  : 

Wash  your  hands !  put  on  your  night-gown  !  look 
not  so  pale  !  I  tell  you  yet  again  Banquo's  buried  ! 
He  cannot  come  out  of  his  grave  I  To  bed  !  to  bed  ! 
There's  knocking  at  the  gate  !  Come,  come,  come ! 
Give  me  your  hand  !  What's  done  cannot  be  un- 
done !     To  bed  !  To  bed  !  To  bed  I — HUake^feare, 


THE  CHILD-WIFE. 

{Prize  Selection,  Jane,  1SS8,  K.  Mo.  State  Normal) 

All  this  time  I  had  gone  on  loving  Dora  liarder 
than  ever.  If  I  may  so  express  it,  I  was  steeped  in 
Dora.  I  was  not  merely  over  head  and  cars  in  love 
with  her,  I  was  saturated  through  and  tlirougli.  1 
took  night  walks  to  Norwood  where  sh.e  lived,  and 
j)erainbulated  round  aixl  round  the  house  :ind  garden 
for  hours  toofether  :  lookino-  throuqh    crevices  in  the 


28  READINGS,  llECITATIONS, 

palings,  using  violent  exertions  to  get  my  chin  above 
the  rusty  nails  on  top,  blowing  kisses  at  the  liglits  in 
the  windows  and  roniantiealiy  calling  on  the  night  to 
shield  my  Dora, — I  don't  exactly  know  from  what, — 
I  suppose  from  mice,  to  whicli  ^lie  had  a  great  ob- 
jection. 

Dora  had  a  discreet  friend  whose  name  was  Miss 
Mills.  Dora  called  her  Julia.  She  was  the  bosom 
fiiend  of  Dora.  Happy  Miss  Mills !  One  day  she 
said  to  me:  '^Dora  is  coming  to  stay  with  me.  She 
is  coming  the  day  aftei'  to-morrow.  Jf  you  would  like 
to  call,  I  am  sure  papa  would  be  happy  to  see  yoiu" 

I  spent  three  days  in  a  luxury  of  wretchedness.  At 
last  arrayed  for  the  purpose  at  a  vast  expense,  I 
went  to  Miss  Mills's  fraught  with  a  declaration.  J.Ir. 
Mills  was  not  at  home.  1  didn't  expect  he  would  be. 
Nobody  wanted ///w.  Miss  Mills  was  at  home.  And 
1  was  shown  into  a  room  where  she  and  Dora  were. 
Dora's  little  dog  Jip  was  there.  Miss  Mills  was  copy- 
ing music  and  Dora  was  painting  flowers.  What  were 
my  feelings  when  I  recognized  flowers  I  had  given 
her  !  Miss  Mills  was  very  glad  to  see  me,  and  very 
sorry  her  papa  was  not  at  home,  though  I  tliought  we 
all  bore  that  with  fortitude.  Miss  Mills  was  conver- 
sational for  a  few  minutes  then  got  up  and  left  the 
room. 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

"  I  hope  your  poor  horse  was  not  tired  when  he  got 
home  from  that  picnic,"  said  Dora,  lifting  up  her 
beautiful  eyes.     "  It  was  a  long  way  for  him." 

I  began  to  think  I  would  do  it  to-day. 

''It  was  a  long  way  for  him,  for  he  had  nothing  to 
u}>liold  him  on  his  journey." 

''  Wasn't  he  fed,  poor  thing?" 

I  began  to  think  I  would  put  it  off  till  to-morrow. 

'*  Ye — yes,  he  was  well  taken  care  of.  I  mean  lie 
had  not  the  unutterable  happiness  that  I  had  in  being 
so  near  to  you." 

I  saw  now  that  I  was  in  for  it,  and  it  must  be  done 
on  the  spot. 


AND  IMPElitiONATIONS.  29 

"I  don't  know  why  you  should  care  for  being  near 
me,  or  Avhy  you  should  call  it  a  happiness.  But  of 
course  you  don't  mean  wliat  you  say.  Jip,  you 
nauglity  boy,  come  here  I  " 

I  don't  know  how  1  did  it,  but  I  did  it  in  a  minute. 
I  intercepted  Jip.  I  had  Dora  in  my  arms.  I  was 
full  of  ek)quence.  I  never  stopped  for  a  word.  I 
told  her  how  1  loved  her.  1  told  lier  I  should  die 
without  her.  I  told  her  that  I  idolized  and  worshipped 
her.  Jip  barked  madly  all  the  time,  but  my  elo- 
quence increased,  and  I  said  if  she  would  like  me  to 
die  for  her,  she  had  but  to  say  the  word  and  I  was 
ready.  I  had  loved  her  to  distraction  every  minute, 
day  and  niglit,  since  I  first  set  eyes  upon  her.  I  loved 
her  at  that  minute  to  distraction.  I  should  always  love 
her  ever\^  minute  to  distraction.  Lovers  had  loved 
before,  and  lovers  would  love  again  ;  but  no  lover  had 
ever  loved,  might,  could,  would  or  should  love  as  I 
loved  Dora.  The  more  I  raved  the  more  Jip  barked. 
Each  of  us  in  his  own  way  got  more  mad  every  minute. 

Well,  well :  Dora  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  sofa, 
by  and  by  quiet  enough,  and  Jip  was  lying  in  her 
lap  winking  peacefully  at  me.  It  Avas  off  my  mind. 
I  was  in  a  state  of  perfect  rapture.  Dora  and  I 
were  engaged. 

Being  poor,  I  felt  it  necessary  the  next  time  I 
went  to  my  darling  to  expatiate  upon  that  un- 
fortunate drawback.  I  soon  carried  desolation  into 
the  bosom  of  our  joys — not  that  I  meant  to  do  it, 
but  that  I  was  so  full  of  the  subject — by  asking 
Dora  without  the  smallest  preparation  if  she  could 
love  a  beggar. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  anything  so  foolish  ? 
Love  a  beggar !  " 

"  Dora,  my  own  dearest,  I  am  a  beggar  !  " 

*'  How  can  you  be  such  a  silly  thing  as  to  sit  there 
telling  such  stories  ?  I'll  make  Jip  bite  you  if  you 
are  so   ridiculous." 

But  I  looked  so  serious  that  Dora  began  to  cry. 


30  UK  A  DINGS,  liEClTATlONS, 

She  (lid  riothiiig  but  exclaim,  Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear! 
And  oil,  she  was  so  frightened  I  and  where  was 
Julia  Mills?  And  oh,  take  her  to  Julia  Mills,  and 
go  away,  please !  until  I  was  almost  beside  mj'self. 
I  thought  1  had  killed  her.  I  sprinkled  water  on 
lier  face  ;  I  went  down  on  my  knees  ;  I  plucked  at 
my  hair ;  I  besought  her  forgiveness,  and  implored 
her  to  look  up,  which  she  finally  did  with  a  liorrified 
expression  which  I  gradually  soothed  until  it  was 
only  loving  and  her  soft  pretty  cheek  was  lying 
against  mine. 

"Is  your  heart  mine  still,  dear  Dora?" 

"  01^  yes  !  Oh,  yes  !  it's  all  yours.  Oh,  don't  be 
dreadful.'" 

"  My  dearest  love,  the  crust  well  earned " 

"Oh,  yes;  but  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more 
about  crusts.  And  after  we  are  married,  Jip  must 
have  his  mutton  chop  every  day  at  twelve  or  he'll 
die." 

I  was  charmed  with  her  childish,  winning  way, 
and  I  fondly  explained  to  her  tliat  Jip  should  have 
his  mutton  chop  with  his  accustomed  regularity. 

Time  })assed  on  and  Dora  and  I  were  married. 
I  doubt  whether  two  young  birds  could  have  known 
less  about  housekeeping  than  I  and  my  pretty  Dora 
did.  We  had  a  servant  of  course.  She  kept  house 
for  us.  And  an  awful  time  of  it  w^e  had  with  Mary 
Ann.     She  was  the  cause  of  our  first  little  quarrel. 

"  My  dearest  life,"  I  said  one  day  to  Dora,  "  do 
you  think  that  Mary  Ann  has  any  idea  of  time  ?  "' 

"Why,  Doady?" 

"  Because,  my  love,  it  is  five,  and  we  were  to  have 

dined    at    four. Don't   you    think,   my  dear,  it 

would  be  better  for  you  to  remonstrate  with  Mary 
Ann  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  please  !     I  couldn't,  Doady !  " 

"Why  not,  my  love?" 

"  Oh,  because  I'm  such  a  little  goose,  and  she 
knows  I  am  !  " 

I  thought  this  sentiment  so  incompatible  with  the 


AND  IMPEIiSOXATIONS.  31 

establislmient  of  any  system  of  check  upon  Mary 
Ann  tliat  I  frowned  a  little. 

"  My  precious  wife,  we  must  be  serious  sometimes. 
Come  sit  down  on  this  chair  close  beside  me.  Now 
let  us  talk  sensibly.  You  know,  my  dear,  it  is  not 
exactly  comfortable  to  have  to  go  out  without  one's 
dinner.     Now  is  it?  " 

"  N-u-n-no !  " 

"  My  love,  how  you  tremble  !  " 

"  Because  I  know  you  are  going  to  scold  !  '* 

''  My  sweet,  I  am  only  going  to  reason  !  " 

"  Oh,  but  reasoning  is  worse  than  scolding !  I 
didn't  marry  to  be  reasoned  with.  If  you  meant  to 
reason  with  such  a  poor  little  creature  as  I,  you 
ought  have  told  me  so,  you  cruel  boy  !  " 

'•'  Dora,  my  darling  !  " 

''No,  lam  not  your  darling.  Because  you  must 
be  sorry  you  married  me,  or  else  you  wouldn't  reason 
with  me ! " 

'*  Now,  my  own  Dora,  you  are  childisli  and  are  talk- 
ing nonsense.  You  must  remember,  I  am  sure,  that 
I  was  obliged  to  go  out  yesterday  when  dinner  was 
half  over;  and  that  the  day  before,  I  was  made  quite 
ill  by  being  obliged  to  eat  underdone  veal  in  a  hurry  ; 
to-day,  I  don't  dine  at  all,  and  I  am  afraid  to  say 
how  long  we  waited  for  breakfast.  I  don't  mean  to 
reproach  you,  my  dear,  but  this  is  not  comfortable." 

"  Oh,  you  cruel,  cruel  boy,  to  say  I  am  a  disagree- 
able wife  I" 

"Now,  my  dear  Dora,  you  must  know  that  I 
never  said  that !  " 

"  You  said  I  wasn't  comfortable  !  " 

"I  said  the  housekeeping  was  not  comfortable  !  " 

"It's  exactly  the  same  thing!  and  I  wonder,  I  do, 
at  your  making  such  ungrateful  speeches.  When 
you  know  that  the  other  day  when  3'OU  said  you 
would  like  a  little  bit  of  fish,  I  went  out  myself, 
miles  and  miles,  and  ordered  it  just  to  surprise  you." 

"And  it  was  very  kind  of  you,  my  own  darling; 
and  I  felt  it  so  much,  that  I  wouldn't  on  any  account 


32  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

have  mentioned  tliat  you  bought  a  salmon,  which 
was  too  much  for  two,  and  that  you  paid  one  pound 
six,  wliich  is  more  than  we  can  afford." 

'^You  enjoyed  it  very  much,  and  you  said  I  was  a 
mouse." 

"And  ril  say  so  again,  my  love,  a  thousand 
times  !  " 

I  said  it  a  thousand  times  and  went  on  saying  it, 
until  Dora  was  comforted  and  once  more  smiled  upon 
me  with  those  beautiful  eyes. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  all  this,  Doad}^"  said  Dora, 
at  last.  "  Will  vou  call  mc  a  name  J  want  you  to 
call  me  ?  " 

"What  is  it,  my  love?" 

"It's  a  stupid  name, — child-wife.  When  you  are 
going  to  be  angry  with  me,  say  to  yourself,  '  It's 
only  my  child-wife.'  When  I  am  very  disa})point- 
ing,  sa}',  '  I  knew  a  long  time  ago  that  she  would  make 
but  a  child-wife.'  When  you  miss  what  you  would 
like  me  to  be,  and  what  I  should  like  to  be,  and  what 
I  think  I  never  can  be,  sa}-,  '  Still  my  foolish  child- 
wife  loves  me.'     For  indeed,  I  do,  Doady." 

I  invoke  the  innocent  figure  I  so  dearly  loved  to 
come  out  of  the  mists  and  shadows  of  the  past,  and 
to  turn  its  gentle  head  towards  me  once  again,  and 
to  bear  witness  that  it  was  made  happy  by  what  I 
answered. —  Charles  Dickens. 


HIAWATHA'S  WOOING. 

{Prize  Selection,  at  the  North  Mo.  State  Normal,  June,  1886.) 

"  As  unto  the  bow  the  cord  is, 
So  unto  the  man  is  woman, 
Though  she  bends  him,  she  obe3'S  him. 
Though  she  draws  him,  yet  she  follows, 
Useless  each  without  the  other." 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  33 

Thus  my  youthful  Hiawatha 
Said  within  himself  and  pondered, 
Listless,  longing,  hoping,  fearing, 
Dreaming  still  of  Minnehaha, 
Of  the  lovely  Laughing  Water, 
In  the  land  of  the  Dakotas. 

*'  Wed  a  maiden  of  your  people," 
Warning  spake  the  old  Nokomis, 
"  Go  not  eastward,  go  not  westward, 
For  a  stranger  whom  we  know  not ! 
Like  a  fire  upon  the  hearthstone 
Is  a  neighbor's  homely  daughter, 
Like  the  starliglit  or  the  moonlight 
Is  the  handsomest  of  strangers  !  " 

Thus  dissuading  spake  Nokomis, 
And  my  Hiawatha  answered 
Only  this  :  ''  Dear  old  Nokomis, 
Very  pleasant  is  the  firelight 
But  I  like  the  starlight  better, 
Better  do  I  like  the  moonlight !  " 

Gravely,  then,  said  old  Nokomis: 
*^  Bring  not  here  an  idle  maiden. 
Bring  not  here  a  useless  woman." 

Smiling  answered  Hiawatha, 
"  In  the  land  of  the  Dakotas 
Lives  the  Arrow-maker's  daughter 
Minnehaha — Laughing  Water, 
I  will  bring  her  to  your  wigwam, 
She  shall  run  upon  your  errands, 
Be  your  starlight,  moonlight,  firelight, 
Be  the  sunlight  of  my  people." 

Thus  departed  Hiawatha 
To  the  land  of  the  Dakotas, 
Striding  over  moor  and  meadow 
Through  interminable  forests 
Till  he  heard  the  cataract's  laughter. 


34  iiJCADIXGS,   IlECirATIONS, 

Heard  llie  Falls  of  AJinuclialia 

Calling  t(3  him  llirougli  the  silence, 

"  Welcome,  welcome,  Hiawatha,  Hiawatha!" 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  forest, 
'Twixt  the  shadow  and  the  sunshine, 
Herds  of  fallow  deer  were  feeding, 
But  they  saw  not  Hiawatha. 
To  his  bow  and  arrow  whispered, 
"  Fail  not,  swerve  not !  " 
Sent  it  singing  on  its  errand 
To  tlie  red  heart  of  the  roe-buck, 
Threw  the  deer  across  his  shoulder. 
And  sped  forward  without  pausing. 

At  the  doorwa}'  of  his  wigwam, 
Sat  the  ancient  Arrow-maker. 
At  his  side  in  all  her  beauty 
Sat  the  lovely  Minnehaha. 
Of  the  past  the  old  man's  thoughts  were, 
But  the  maiden's  of  the  future. 
He  was  thinking  as  he  sat  there, 
Of  the  days  when  with  such  arrows 
He  had  struck  the  deer  and  bison 
Shot  the  wild-goose  flying  southward, 
She  was  thinking  of  a  hunter. 
From  another  tribe  and  country. 
Who  one  morning  in  the  spring-time 
Came  to  buy  her  father's  arrows, 
Would  he  come  again  for  arrows 
To  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha? 

Through  their  thouglits  they  heard  a  footstep, 
Heard  a  rustling  in  the  branches, 
And  with  glowing  check  and  forehead, 
Hiawatha  stood  before  tliem. 

Strnight  tlie  ancient  Arrow-maker 
Bade  liiin  enter  at  the  doorwa}', 
Saving  as  he  rose  to  meet  him, 
"Hiawatha,  von  ai-c  welcome." 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  35 

At  the  feet  of  Laughing  Water 
Hiawatha  laid  his  burden, 
And  the  maiden  looked  up  at  him, 
Said  with  gentle  look  and  accent, 
"  You  are  welcome,  Hiawatha." 

Then  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 
Listened  while  the  guest  was  speaking 
Yea  as  in  a  dream  she  listened 
To  the  words  of  Hiawatha, 
As  he  told  of  old  Nokomis 
Who  had  nursed  him  in  his  childhood, 
As  he  told  of  his  companions 
In  the  pleasant  land  and  peaceful. 
*'  That  this  peace  may  last  forever, 
And  our  hearts  be  more  united. 
Give  me  as  my  wife  this  maiden, 
Minnehaha — Laughing  Water." 
"  Yes — if  Minnehaha  wishes. 
Let  your  heart  speak,  Minnehaha." 

Then  the  lovely  Laughing  Water 

Said,  and  blushed  to  say  it, 

"  I  will  follow  you,  my  husband." 

This  was  Hiawatha's  wooing. 
Thus  it  was  he  won  the  daughter 
Of  the  tribe  of  the  Dokotas. 

From  the  wigwam  he  departed 
Leading  with  him  Laughing  Water. 
Left  the  old  man  standing  lonely 
At  the  doorway  of  his  wigwam. 
While  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Called  unto  them  from  the  distance 
Crjdng  to  them  from  afar  off — 
"Fare-thee-well,  O  Minnehaha  !  " 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  liomeward. 
All  the  traveling  winds  went  with  them, 
All  tlie  stars  of  night  watched  o'er  them, 
And  the  I'abbit  and  the  squirrel. 


30  i:ii:ADiyGS,  recitations, 

Scainpeied  from  the  path  before  them 
Peeping,  pee[)iiig  from  their  burrows 
Watched  with  curious  eyes  the  lovers. 
From  the  sky  the  sun  benignant 
Looked  upon  them  through  the  branches, 
Saying  to  them,"oli,  my  children, 
Love  is  sunshine,  liate  is  shadow, 
Rule  by  love,  O  Hiawatha." 

From  the  sky  the  moon  looked  at  them. 
Filled  the  mystic  lodge  with  splendors* 
Whispered  to  them,  '^Oh,  my  children, 
Day  is  restless,  night  is  quiet, 
Man  imperious,  woman  feeble, 
Rule  by  patience,  Laughing  Water." 

Pleasant  was  the  journey  homeward, 
All  the  birds  sang  loud  and  sweetly 
Songs  of  happiness  and  hearts-ease. 
Sang  the  bobolink  from  tlie  meadow, 
"  Happy  are  you,  Hiawatha 
Having  such  a  wife  to  love  you, 
Happy  are  you,  Minnehaha, 
Having  such  a  noble  husband." 

Longfellow, 


THE  FAMINE. 

Oh,  the  long  and  dreary  winter ! 
Oh,  the  cold  and  cruel  winter ! 
Ever  thicker,  thicker,  thicker 
Froze  the  ice  on  lake  and  river ; 
Ever  deeper,  deei)er,  deeper 
Fell  the  snow  o'er  all  the  landscape. 

Hiirdly  from  liis  buried  wigwam 
Could  the  luinter  force  a  passage. 
Vainly  walked  lie  through  the  forest, 
Sought  for  bird  or  beast  and  found  none, 


AND  IMPEliSOXATIONS.  37 

Siiw  110  track  of  cleer  or  rabbit, 
In  the  ghastly  gleaming  forest 
Fell,  and  could  not  rise  for  weakness, 
Perislied  there  from  cold  and  hunger. 

Oh,  the  famine  and  the  fever  ! 
Oh,  the  wasting  of  the  famine  ! 
Oh,  the  blasting  of  the  fever  ! 
All  the  earth  was  sick  and  famished ; 
All  tlie  air  and  sky  wei'e  hungry. 

Into  Iliawatlia's  wigwam 
Came  two  other  guests,  as  silent 
As  tlie  giiosts  were,  and  as  gloomy; 
Sat  there  without  word  of  welcome, 
In  the  seat  of  Laughing  Water  ; 
Looked  with  haggard  eyes  and  hollow, 
At  the  face  of  Laugliing  Water. 
And  tlie  foremost  said  :     *'  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Famine,  Bukadawin  !  " 
And  tlie  other  said  :    "  Behold  me  ! 
I  am  Fever,  Ahkosewin  !  " 
And  tlie  lovely  Minnehaha 
Shuddered  as  they  looked  upon  her. 
Lay  down  on  her  bed  in  silence. 
Hid  her  face,  but  made  no  answer. 
Lay  there  trembling,  freezing,  burning 
At  the  fearful  words  they  uttered. 

Forth  into  the  empty  forest 
Rushed  the  maddened  Hiawatha, 
On  his  brow  the  sweat  of  anguish 
Started,  but  it  froze  and  fell  not, 
And  he  cried  with  face  uplifted, 
In  that  bitter  hour  of  anguish, 
"  Gitche  Manito,  the  Mighty ! 
Give  your  children  food,  O  Father! 
Give  us  food  or  we  must  perish ! 
Give  me  food  for  Minnehaha, 
For  my  dying  Minnehaha  !  " 

Through  the  far  resounding  forest 


38  HEADINGS,  liECirATIONSy 

Through  the  forest  vast  and  vacant, 
Kang  that  cry  of  desolation, 
But  there  came  no  other  answer, 
Than  the  echo  of  his  crying, 

"  Minneliaha  !     Minnehaha  !  " 

In  the  wigwam  with  Nokomis, 
And  the  gloomy  guests  that  watched  her, 
She  was  lying,  the  beloved. 
She  the  dying  Minnehaha. 
"  Hark  !  "  she  said,  "  1  hear  a  rushing, 
Hear  a  rop.ring  imd  a  rushing. 
Hear  the  Falls  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  me  from  the  distance  ! " 
"  No,  my  child  !  "  said  old  Nokomis, 
*''Tis  the  night  wind  in  the  pine  trees!" 
"  Lock  !  "  she  said,  "  I  ste  my  father 
Standing  lonely  at  his  doorway, 
Beckoniug  to  me  from  his  wigwam ! " 
"  No,  my  child,"  said  old  Nokomis, 
*'  'Tis  the  smoke  that  waves  and  beckons  I  " 
"Ah!  "  she  said,  ''the  eyes  of  Pauguk 
Glare  upon  me  in  the  darkness, 
I  can  feel  his  ic}^  lingers 
Clasping  mine  amid  the  darkness  I 
Hiawatha  !     Hiawatha !  " 

And  the  desolate  Hiawatha, 
Far  away  among  the  mounttiins, 
Heard  tliat  sudden  cry  of  anguish. 
Heard  tiie  voice  of  Minnehaha 
Calling  to  him  from  the  distance, 
"Hiawatiia!     Hiawatlia ! " 
Homeward  hurried  Hiawatha, 
Empty-handed — heavy-liearted, 
'  Heard  Nokomis  moaning,  wailing; 

"  Would  that  I  liad  perislied  for  you, 
Would  tliat  I  weie  dead  as  you  are, 
Wahonowin  I     Wahonowin  !  " 

And  lie  rushed  into  the  wigwam. 


AND  IMPERSOyATIONS.  39 

Saw  his  lovely  Minnehaha 

Lying  dead  and  cold  before  hiin. 

And  his  buisting  lieait  within  him 

Uttered  snch  a  cry  of  anguish 

That  the  forest  moaned  and  shuddered. 

Then  lie  sat  down  still  a^id  speechless, 
At  the  feet  of  Minnehaha, 
At  those  willing  feet  that  never 
More  would  lightly  run  to  meet  him 
Never  more  would  liglitly  follow. 
As  in  a  swoon  lie  sat  there, 
Speechless,  motionless,  unconscious 
Of  the  daylight  or  the  darkness. 
Then  they  buried  Minnehaha ; 
In  the  snow  a  grave  they  made  her, 
Underneath  the  moaning  hemlocks. 
Wrapped  her  in  lier  lobes  of  ermine, 
Covered  her  with  snow-like  ermine. 
*^  Farewell ! ''  said  he,  "  Minnehaha;  ' 
Farewell,  O  my  Laughing  Water ! 
All  my  heart  is  buried  with  you 
All  my  thoughts  go  onward  with  you  I 
Come  not  back  again  to  suffer 
Where  the  Famine  and  the  Fever 
Wear  the  heart  and  waste  the  body. 
Soon  my  task  will  be  completed, 
Soon  3-0 ur  footsteps  I  shall  follow 
To  the  Islands  of  the  Blessed, 
To  the  Land  of  the  Hereafter." 

Longfellow, 


THE  LITTLE   HOUSEKEEPER. 

O,  dear !  I'se  so  dreff  ul  tired,  been  washin'  so  hard 

mose  all  day ; 
S'pect  these  tlose  had  better  be  ironed,  hope  mamma 

'11  keep  Freddie  away. 


40  READINGS,  ItECITATIONS, 

He  bovers  me  so,  and  'H  wake  Lottie,  'fore  it's  time 

to  take  her  up. 
Then  she  kies  and  kies  so  naughty,  I  dives  her  some 

soofsin  syrup. 

Guess  Dollie's  tuttin'  her  toofies,  tause  she  kies  so 

mose  ever  day  ; 
I'll  buy  her  a  wubber  to  bite  on,  I'se  dot  free  cents 

for  tlie  pay. 
I  must  dit  somebody's  to  hep  me,  I'se  dot  so  much 

works  for  to  do  ! 
Dollie  must  have  two  or  free  dresses,  and  a  cloak 

made  "  a  la  Watteau." 

Guess  its  about  time  to  dit  dinner,  tause  Lottie  '11 

want  somesiii  to  eat ; 
My  sakes !  I  mose  tut  my  fmner,  tryin'  to  slice  that 

cold  meat. 
I'll  borrow  some  zerves  of  my  mamma,  'tause  her's 

dot  lots  of  'em  I  know, 
She  teeps  'em  .up  high   in  the  tloset,  I  heard  her 

tell  B'io-et  so. 

o 

I  detlare  \  this   house    does  look   awful ;  I   wonder 

what  mamma  will  say 
'Bout  tlie   water  T  'pilled  on  the  tarpet,  when  Fse 

taten'  tlie  tubs  away. 
B'ess   me !  if    Lottie   hain't   wakin',  and   kien  and 

kien  to  be  taked ; 
And   I   hain't   dot   dinner   ready,  the   tookies  ain't 

more'u  half  baked. 

O,  dear!  this  world's  full  of  trouble,  and  baby's  as 

cross  as  a  bear 
With  a  sore  head  ;  and  ray  life  is  chuck  full  of  sorrer 

and  tarcc 
Tum  to  your  muzzer,  you  dear  'ittle  wose-bud,  you're 

sweeter  than  whole  lots  of  pinks. 
Be  a  dood  diil  now  and  keep  very  quiet  and  muzzer 

will  sing  "  Cap'n  Jinks." 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  41 

THE  PRESENT  AGE.  . 

{Prize  Declamation^  May^  ISUO,  N.  Mo.  State  Normal.) 

The  Present  Age.  In  those  brief  words  wliat  a 
world  of  thought  is  comprehended  !  VVliat  infinite 
movements  I  What  joys  and  sorrows  !  What  hope 
and  despair  I  What  faith  and  doubt!  What  silent 
grief  and  loud  lament!  What  fierce  conflicts  and 
subtle  schemes  of  policy!  What  private  ami  public 
revolutions  ! 

In  the  period  through  which  many  of  us  have 
passed,  what  thrones  have  been  shaken  !  What 
hearts  have  bled  !  What  millions  have  been  butchered 
by  tlieir  fellow  men!  What  liopes  of  pliilanthropy 
have  been  blighted  ! 

At  the  same  time  what  magnificent  enterprises 
have  been  achieved  !  What  new  provinces  won  to 
science  and  art!  What  rights  and  liberties  secured 
to  nations!  Aye — it  is  a  privilege  to  Inive  lived  in 
an  age  so  stirring,  so  eventful !  It  is  an  age  never  to 
be  forgotten.  Its  voice  of  warning  and  encourage- 
ment is  never  to  die.  Its  impression  on  history  is 
indelible. 

Amid  its  events  tlie  American  Revolution — the 
first  distinct,  solemn  assertion  of  the  rights  of  men^ — 
and  the  French  Revolution — that  volcanic  force, 
which  shook  the  earth  to  its  very  centre — are  never 
to  pass  from  men's  minds.  Over  this  age  the  night 
will  indeed  gather  more  and  more  as  time  rolls  away  ; 
but  in  that  night  two  forms  will  appear.  Washing- 
ton and  Napoleon  !  TlTe  one  a  lurid  meteor,  the 
other  a  benign,  serene,  and  undecaying  star. 

Another  American  name  will  appear  in  history. 
Your  Franklin ;  and  the  kite  which  brought  light- 
ning from  heaven,  will  be  seen  sailing  in  the  clouds 
by  remote  posterity  when  the  city  where  lie  dwelt 
may  be  known  on]y  by  its  ruins. 


42  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

There  is,  however,  something  greater  in  the  age 
than  its  greatest  men  ;  it  is  the  appearance  of  a  new 
power  in  the  world,  the  appearance  of  the  multitude 
on  the  stage,  where  as  3'et  the  few  have  acted  their 
parts  alone.  This  influence  is  to  endure  to  the  end 
of  time.  What  more  of  the  present  is  to  survive? 
Perliaps  much  of  whicli  we  now  take  no  note.  The 
glory  of  an  age  is  often  hidden  from  itself.  Perliaps 
some  word  has  been  spoken  in  our  day  which  we 
have  not  deigned  to  hear,  but  which  is  to  grow  clearer 
and  louder  through  all  ages.  Perhaps  some  silent 
thinker  among  us  is  at  work  in  his  closet,  whose 
name  is  to  fill  the  earth.  Perhaps  there  sleeps  in  his 
cradle  some  reformer  who  is  to  move  the  church,  and 
the  world ;  who  is  to  open  a  new  era  in  history,  who 
is  to  fire  the  human  soul  with  new  hope  and  new 
daring. 

What  else  is  to  survive  the  age  ?  That  which  the 
age  has  little  thouglit  of,  but  which  is  living  in  us 
all;  I  mean  the  soul,  the  immortal  Spirit !  Of  this, 
all  ages  are  the  unfolding:,,  and  it  is  greater  than  all. 
We  must  not  feel  in  the  contemplation  of  the  vast 
movements  in  our  own  and  former  times,  as  if  we 
ourselves  were  nothing.  I  repeat  it,  we  are  greater 
than  all.  We  are  to  survive  our  age,  to  comprehend 
it,  and  to  pronounce  its  sentence. —  W.  E.  Channing, 


MR.  HORNER  ON  GRUMBLE  CORNER. 

I  knew  a  man  and  his  name  was  Horner, 
Who  used  to  live  on  Grumble  Corner ; 
Grumble  Corner  in  Cross  Patch  Town, 
And  he  never  was  seen  without  a  frown. 
He  grumbled  at  this  ;  he  grumbled  at  that; 
He  growled  at  the  dog ;  he  growled  at  the  cat ; 
He  grumbled  at  morning;  he  grumbled  at  night ; 
And  to  grumble  and  growl  was  his  cliief  delight. 


AND  IMPEIiSONATIONS.  43 

He  grumbled  so  much  at  liis  wife  thsit  she 

Began  to  grumble  as  well  as  he  ; 

And  all  the  children  wherever  they  went, 

Reflected  their  parents'  discontent. 

If  the  sky  was  dark  and  betokened  rain, 

Then  Mr.  Horner  was  sure  to  complain ; 

And  if  there  was  never  a  cloud  about, 

He'd  grumble   because  of  a  threatened  drought 

His  meals  were  never  to  suit  his  taste  ; 
He  grumbled  at  having  to  eat  in  haste  ; 
The  bread  was  poor,  or  the  meat  was  tough, 
Or  else  he  hadn't  had  half  enough. 
No  matter  how  hard  his  wife  might  try 
To  please  her  liusband,  with  scornful  eye 
He'd  look  around,  and  then,  with  a  scowl 
At  something  or  otiier  begin  to  growl. 

One  day  as  I  loitered  along  the  street. 
My  old  acquaintance  I  chanced  to  meet. 
Whose  face  was  witliout  the  look  of  care 
And  the  ugly  frown  that  it  used  to  wear. 
*^  I  may  be  mistaken,  perhaps,"  I  said. 
As,  after  saluting,  1  turned  my  head ; 
*'  l>ut  it  is,  and  it  isn't,  the  Mr.  Horner 
Who  lived  for  so  long  on  Grumble  Corner!" 

1  met  him  next  day,  and  I  met  him  again. 

In  melting  weather,  in  pouring  rain. 

When  stocks  were  up  and  when  stocks  were  down  ; 

Hut  a  smile  somehow  had  replaced  the  frown. 

It  puzzled  me  much;  and  so  one  day 

I  seized  his  hand  in  a  friendly  way. 

And  said  :  "  Mr.  Horner,  I'd  like  to  know 

What  can  have  happened  to  change  you  so?" 

He  laughed  a  laugh  that  was  good  to  hear. 
For  it  told  of  a  conscience  calm  and  clear. 
And  lie  said,  with  none  of  the  old-time  drawl: 
"Why,  I've  changed  my  residence,  tliat  is  all!" 


41  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

"Changed  your  residence!'"     "Yes,"  said  Horner, 
"It  wasn't  healthy  on  (jrunible  Corner, 
And  so  I  moved  :  'twas  a  change  complete, 
And  you'll  find  me  now  on  Thanksgiving  Street!" 

Now,  every  day,  as  I  move  along 

The  streets  so  filled  with  the  busy  throng, 

I  watch  each  face  and  can  always  tell 

Where  men  and  women  and  children  dwell ; 

And  many  a  discontented  mourner 

Is  spending  his  days  on  Grumble  Corner, 

Sour  and  sad,  whom  I  long  to  entreat 

To  take  a  house  on  Thanksgiving  Street. 

New  York  Independent. 


"  FLIGHT  OF  THE  ANGEL  GABRIEL," 

Conceive,  if  you  can,  the  splendors  that  must  have 
burst  upon  the  eye  of  that  fair  Intelligence,  as  he 
floats  off  from  the  Heavenly  World,  and  directs  his 
flight  toward  the  earth.  On  he  speeds,  through  suns 
and  systems,  and  starry  groups,  while  constellation 
after  constellation  rises  rapidly  around  him  every- 
where, greeting  at  every  stage  new  glories,  that  call 
forth  new  praises  to  Him  who  gave  to  his  mighty  pin- 
ions their  power.  On  the  right  he  beholds  a  grand 
star  system,  in  form  like  unto  a  lily,  glittering  with  the 
dew  of  heaven  ;  on  the  left,  another  grand  cluster 
stands  out  against  the  black  background  of  the  sky, 
like  a  vast  pillar,  on  whose  summit  the  light  of  the 
"  Beautiful  Land  "  is  i)laying.  Anotlier  still  is  seen, 
in  form  like  unto  a  rose,  as  though  blooming  in  the 
garden  of  God  ;  while  others  still,  resemble  goblets, 
sparkling  to  the  brim  with  celestial  light.  On,  he 
speeds,  while  suns  and  systems  blaze  up  in  wild  splen- 
dor, then  I'ecede  into  the  awful  depths  behind  him. 
At  length  one  great,  grand  cluster  appears,  in  form 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  45 

like  unto  a  rincf,  as  thougli  made  of  the  finger  of 
Deity — 'tis  ihe  Milky  Way,  to  which  our  sun  belongs. 
He  speeds  toward  it,  and  passes  in  among  its  con- 
stellations. 

To  the  north  lie  beholds  Cassiopeia,  on  her  five- 
starred  throne  ;  farther  south  great  Orion  appears 
with  his  blazon  belt  and  Sirius  burning  in  his  awful 
lustre.  Not  far  off  the  Pleiades  appear,  glittering 
with  su[)ernal  splendor,  like  a  breast-plate  on  the 
bosom  of  Deity — the  Urim  and  Thuinmim  of  the  Eter- 
nal !  Far  to  the  south  the  Southern  Cross  appears, 
its  blood-red  stars  typical  of  the  blood  shed  upon 
another  cross  18  centuries  ago.  At  length  a  brilliant 
star  catches  his  eye.  'Tis  our  sun  !  Hg  speeds  to- 
ward it,  and  passes  in  among  tlie  planetary  bodies. 
First  come  Neptune  and  Uranus,  then  Saturn  with 
his  many  moons,  and  glittering  ring  sj'stems.  Then 
he  beholds  great  Jupiter — great  Titan  of  the  sky  ! 
and  the  little  red  planet  Mars.  Close  to  the  sun 
the  little  sparklers,  Mercttry  and  Vulcan,  appear,  and 
Venus,  quivering  in  the  ambient  air,  till  at  length 
one  little  blue  star  catches  his  eye — 'tis  our  earth. 
He  speeds  toward  it ;  hovers  'round  it  for  a  moment, 
like  a  humming-bird  'round  a  flower — dips  into  its 
blue  atmosphere :  and  alights  at  the  feet  of  the  as- 
tonished Daniel  at  tlie  liour  of  the  evening  oblation  ! 
Beloved,  such  may  be  life  among  the  stars  !  If  so, 
may  such  life  be  yours  and  mine. — Prof.  Ferguson. 


BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  the  here. 

Where  did  you  get  those  eyes  so  blue  ? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin  ? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 


46  HEADINGS,  UECITATIONS, 

Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear  ? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high  ? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 

What  makes  your clieeks  like  a  warm  wliite  rose  ? 
I  saw  some  tiling  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  tliree-cornered  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  ancjels  ^^\(i  me  at  once  a  kiss. 

Where  did  you  ofet  tliis  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke  and  it  came  out  to  liear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands? 
Love  made  itself  into  bonds  and  bands. 

Feet,  wlience  did  you  come,  you  darling  things? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  just  come  to  be  you? 
God  thought  about  me,  and  so  I  grew. 

But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear  ? 
God  thought  about  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

MacDonald. 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR. 

Miss  Flora  McFlimsy  of  Madison  Square, 

Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me  each  time  she  was  there 

That  she  and  lier  friend,  Mrs.  Harris, 
Spent  six  consecutive  weeks  without  stopping 
In  one  continuous  round  of  sliopping. 
Sh()])ping  alone  and  sliopping  together, 
At  all  hours  of  the  d<iy  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather 
For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  could  put 
On  the  crown  of  her  he;id,  or  the  sole  of  her  foot, 
Or  wra})  round  her  shouldei*s,  or  fit  round  her  waist. 
Or  Ih.it  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  or  laced. 


AND  niPERS0NAT10Ii8.  47 

Or  tied  on  with  a  string  or  stitched  on  with  a  bow, 
In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below. 

Dresses  for  home,  and  the  street,  and  the  hall, 
Dresses  for  whiter,  spring,  summer,  and  fall, 
Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in, 
Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in, 
Ami  dresses  to  do  nothing  at  a^  in. 
All  of  them  different  in  color  and  pattern. 
Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  crape,  velvet  and  satin. 
Nothing  to  wear  !  why  I've  heard  lier  declare. 
When  at  the  same  moment,  she  liad  on  a  dress, 
That  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent  less, 
That  she  "  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  wear." 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Flora's 
Two  Imndred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 
I  liad  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw 
All  the  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal, 
On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections 
Of  those  fossil  remains,  which  she  termed  her  affec- 
tions. 
Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  McFlimsy  and  gained 

lier, 
With  the  silks,  crinolines  and  hoops  that  contained 

her, 
I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder, 
At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 
To  appear  as  its  escort,  by  day  and  by  night. 
And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckup's  grand  ball, 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call, 
And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 

She  turned  as  I  entered,  "  Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 
I  tliought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers  to  dinner." 
"  So  I  did,"  I  replied,  "  but  the  dinner  is  swallowed 
And  digested,  I  trust,  for  'tis  now  nine  and  more. 
So,  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed  inclina- 
tion. 
Which  leads  me,  you  see,  to  your  door. 


48  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

And  now,  will  your  Lidyship  so  condescend 

As  just  to  inform  nie  if  you  intend, 

Your  beauty,  and  grace,  and  presence  to  lend, 

To  the  Stuckup's  grand  party  to-morrow  ?  " 

The  fair  Flora  looked  up  witli  a  pitiful  air. 

And  answered  quite  promptly, '' VVliy,  Harry,  my  dear, 

I  should  love  above  all  things  to  go  with  you  there, 

But  really,  and  truly,  Tve  nothing  to  tveary 

"  Nothing  to  wear?     Go  just  as  you  are. 
Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you'll  be  by  far, 
I  am  sure,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star. 
On  the   Stuckup  horizon."     I  stopped,  for  her  eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery. 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 
Of  scorn  and  amazement.     She  made  no  reply. 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose — 
That  pure  Grecian  feature — as  much  as  to  say, 
"  How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 
No  matter  how  fine,  tliat  she  wears  every  day." 

So  I  ventured  again,  "  Wear  your  crimson  brocade." 

Second  turn  up  of  nose — "  That's  too  dark  bv  a  shade." 

"  Your  blue  silk."     "  That's  too  heavy." 

"•  Your  pink  then."     "  That's  too  light." 

''  Wear  tulle  over  satin."  "  Oh,  Harrv,  I  can't  endure 

white." 
*'  Your  rose-color  then,  the  best  of  the  batch." 
'*But  I  haven't  a  thread  of  point-lace  to  match." 
"Your  brown  moire  antique."     "  Yes,  and  look  like 

a  Quaker." 
"Your  pearl-colored."   "I  would,  but   that    plaguy 

dressmaker 
Has  had  it  a  week."    "  Then  that  exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  SJiylock." 
Here  tlie  nose  took  again  that  same  clovatii>n  — 
'*  I  wouldn't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation  I " 
**  Why  not?     'Tis  lovely  as  can  be." 
"  Yes,  but  dear  me,  that  lean  Sophmuia  Slucknp 


AND  IMPEliSONATIONS.  49 

Has  one  just  like  it,  and  I  won't  appear 
Dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 

"  Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  mazarin." 

"  Which  most  of  all  isn't  fit  to  be  seen," 

Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  Hushed. 

"  Then  wear,"   I  exclaimed  in  a  tone  which   quite 

crushed 
Opposition,  "that  gorgeous  toilet  which  you  sported 
In  Paris  last  spring  at  the  grand  presentation 
When  you  quite  turned  the  heads  of  the  nation." 
"  I  have  worn  it  three  times  at  the  least  calculation, 
And  that  with  the  rest  of  my  dresses  is  ripped  up." 
Here  I  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash. 
Quite  innocent  though, — but  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic, — It  settled  my  hash. 
And  proved  very  soon  the  last  act  of  our  session. 

*'  I  wonder  the  ceiling  doesn't  fall  down 

And  crush  you,  oh,  you  men  have  no  feeling ; 

You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 

Who  set  yourselves  up  for  patterns  and  preachers. 

I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I've  nothing  to  wear, 

And  its  perfectly  plain,  you  not  only  don't  care 

But  you  do  not  believe  me, — here  the  nose  went  still 

higher. 
I  suppose  if  you  dared,  sir,  you'd  call  me  a  liar. 
Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir,  yes,  on  the  spot, 
You're  a  brute  and  a  monster,  and — I  don't  know 

what." 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words,  Hottentot, 
Pickpocket  and  cannibal — Tartar  and  thief, 
As  gentle  expletives  that  might  bring  relief. 

But  this  only  proved  as  spark  to  the  powder, 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder. 
It  blew  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened  and  hailed 
Interjections,    verbs,  pronouns,  till   language   quite 
failed 

4 


50  Ji /^'- 1  J> J  V r; ,s,  liEClT. I TIONS, 

To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears, 
Were  broiicrlit  u[)  all  at  op.ce  by  a  torrent  of  tears. 
Well,  I  felt  for  the  lad^s  and  1  felt  for  my  liar, 
And  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow. 
Found  myself  in  the  entry  1  scarcely  know  how, 
On  doorstep  and  sidewalk,  past  lam})-post  and  square, 
At  home  and  upstairs  in  my  own  easy-chair. 
Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  m}^  lire  into  blaze. 
And  said  to  myself  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
*'  Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  a  czar 
Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  could  he  ever  be  happy 
Or  have  rauch  to  spare. 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear?" 

Oh,  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day, 
Just  trundle  your  hoops  out  of  Broadwaj-, 
From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride, 
Its  temples  of  trade  towering  higli  on  each  side. 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes  where  misfortune  and  guilt, 
Their  children  have  gathered,  their  hovels  have  built; 
Where  hunger  and  vice  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 
Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair. 
Raise  the  rich  dainty  dress  ai^.d  the  fine,  broidered  skirt 
Pick  your  delicate  wav  through  dampness  and  dirt, 
Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety  stair 
To  the  garret,  Avhere  wretches,  the  young  and  tlie  old, 
Half-starved  and  half-naked  lie  crouched  from  the  cold. 
See  those  poor  ])inched  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet, 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  from  the  stones  of  the  street. 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood — the  deep  groans 

that  swell 
From   the  poor  dying  creatures  that  writhe  on  the 

flooi'. 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  hell, 
As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from  the  door. 
Then  liome  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if  you  dare, 
Spoiled  children  of  fashion,  you've  nothing  to  wear. 

And  oh,  if  iiMchance  tluMv  should  be  a  sphere. 
Where  all  is  i.nulc  right  thai  so  puzzles  us  here. 


AND  IMrEli.SOyATION.i.  51 

Where  the  glare  and  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime. 
Where  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense, 
Unscreened  b}^  its  trappings  and  shows  and  pretense, 
]Miist  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love, 
Oh,  daughters  of  earth,  foolish  virgins,  beware 
Lest  in  that  upper  realm,  you've  nothing  to  wear. 

Butler, 


THE  LITTLE  SCHEHEREZADE. 

I  wantsh  to  tell  you  some  stories ! 
Pull  one  of  your  ears  down — so  ! 
Don't  smoke  in  befront  of  my  face,  pa, 
I'll  sit  on  this  clicket — down  low. 

There  once  was  a  beautiful  p'incess — 
I'm  too  low  enough  ;  3-ou  can't  hear. 
I'll  climb  up  a-top  on  j-our  shoulder, 
And  whisper  it  into  your  ear. 

This  p'incess  kept  sleeping  and  sleeping 
Till  somebody  gave  lier  a  kiss 
That  woke  her ;  for  she  was  enchanted  !* 
She'd  waited  wliole  years  just  for  this. 

Let  me  see  !—  Oh — This  beautiful  p'incess- 
She  wasn't  but  'bout  big  as  me, — 
This  ain't  the  bess'  p'ace  to  tell  stories 
Hop  me  down,  and  le's  sit  on  your  knee. 

Ain't  it  fun  ?    And  it  rides  just  as  easy — 
Wliat's  that?  "  Better  stick  to  my  text?  " 
'Tain't  sermons  I—it's  stories  !    and  papa, 
I — kind  of — can't  think — what  comes  next ! 


62  UEADIMiS,  RECITATIONS, 

"  Don't  believe  I  had  any  stories  ?  " 
I  had — suts  a  nice  one  !  but  now 
I  shaH  just  let  you  tell  your  own  stories  ! 
Shan't  tell  you  a  single  spec  how 

The  p'incess  grew  up  to  a  woman, — 
I  thought  you'd  be  soUy  !  don't  cly  ! 
Next  time  you'll  be  patient  and  listen — 
My  dollies  are  calling — Good-bye  ! 


THE  DAY  OF  PEACE. 

Though  at  last  our  tears  are  banished, 
And  our  garners  are  replenished, 
Sixteen  years  have  come  and  vanished 
Since  the  nation's  long  roll  beat , 
When  from  farm  and  town  and  village, 
Leaving  business,  art  and  tillage, 
Forth  to  scenes  of  strife  and  pillage 
Trod  our  armies'  fateful  feet. 

Four  long  years  of  fiercest  fighting, 
Only  demons'  eyes  delighting, 
And  a  bloody  record  writing, 
Left  us  starved  and  sick  and  sore. 
Four  long  years  of  wild  disorder. 
Spreading  death  from  coast  to  border. 
Brought  at  last  the  welcome  order, 
"  Pence  !     Stack  arms !  we  war  no  more  I " 

Other  years  of  dark  suspicion. 
While  sweet  Peace  beheld  her  mission 
Failing  of  its  fair  fruition, 
And  the  land  was  cold  and  dead ; 
Years  of  jarring  claims  and  races. 
Hardened  hearts  and  darkened  faces, 
Vacant  hearths  and  desolate  places. 
Homes  from  which  all  hope  had  fled. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  53 

Long  tlie  clouds  so  grim  and  leaden 
All  ilie  face  of  nature  deaden, 
Till  the  dawn  begins  to  redden 
Sio-ualino:  the  day  to  all, 
Then  a  breeze  of  better  feehng 
Freer  trust  and  honest  dealing, 
Sweeps  across  the  sky,  revealing 
Spaces  through  the  gloomy  pall. 

From  the  depths  so  pure  and  holy 
Come  the  star-beams,  faintly,  slowly, 
Joyful  gleams  to  high  and  lowly — 
Thus  our  long  lost  stars  return. 
Slowly  works  the  gracious  planner, 
Till  upon  our  blessed  banner, 
In  the  old  accustomed  manner 
All  its  glories  shine  and  burn. 

Peace,  the  giver  of  great  blessing. 
Now,  our  length  and  breadth  possessing, 
Full  of  comfort  and  caressing 
Smiles  from  out  the  sky  a_t  lasty 
States  united  and  co-equal 
In  their  olden  accents  speak  well 
Of  a  bright  and  happy  sequel 
To  the  story  of  the  past. 

Past  at  length  the  nation's  quarrel, 
War  has  taught  its  wholesome  moral, 
Foemen  meet  to  twine  the  laurel 
For  the  heroes   whom  they  fought. 
Past  the  strife  of  race  and  color. 
Lines  of  passion,  growing  duller. 
Fade  before  the  freer,  fuller. 
Better  ways  that  God  has  wrought. 

Sad  was  war,  but  sweet  our  peace  is ; 

Blest  is  sorrow  when  it  ceases  ; 

With  our  hope  our  strength  increases, 


54  BEADING S,  RECITATIONS, 

And  anew  our  race  we  run, 
Sections  tending  to  each  other, 
Just  as  brother  grows  to  brother, 
When  the  passions  sink  and  smother, 
And  the  day  of  strife  is  done. 

Northland,  Southland,  Eastland,  Westland, 
None  the  worst,  and  none  the  best  land, 
All  together  form  the  best  land, 
Fused  in  war's  fierce  furnace  heat. 
Never  more  shall  fate  divide  us. 
Ne'er  again  the  furies  ride  us. 
Nor  can  any  ill  betide  us. 
While  the  Union's  heart  shall  beat. 

Oh,  if  peace  could  but  restore  us, 
To  this   banner  floating  o'er  us. 
Brothers  who  have  gone  before  us, 
Whom  to-day  we  meet  to  mourn  1 
But  they  see  with  clearer  vision. 
In  tlieir  far-off  homes  elysian. 
And  partake  of  our  fruition. 
To  a  new  existence  born. 

Nevermore  in  strife  contending, 
From  the  heaven  above  us  bending. 
While  our  praise  and  prayer  ascending 
Tell  them  they  are  not  forgot. 
Joyfully  the}^  now  discover 
That  the  white-robed  angels  hover 
All  their  resting  places  over. 
Hallowing  each  sacred  spot. 

Nevermore  the  gallant  legions. 
Yonder  in   tlie  starry  regions, 
Strive  for  this  or  that  allegiance. 
All  with  them  is  peace  and  love. 
We,  as  they,  past  our  defilement. 
Guiltless  now  of  vain  revilement. 
Find  at  last  our  reconcilement; 
Peace  is  here,  as  there  above. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS,  55 

Let  us,  tlieii,  tread  softly,  lightly, 
And  with  g.arlands  gleaiinng  brightly, 
Make  the  resting  places  sightly 
Of  our  heroes  'ueath  the  sod. 
All  were  ours,  and  all  together, 
Through  the  battles'  bitter  weather, 
Loosed  for  us  tlieir  human  tether ; 
All  together  went  to  God. 

Let  us  fit  our  new  condition, 
So  that  never  false  ambition 
Shall  prevail  against  our  mission, 
Or  disturb  our  high  career ; 
And  remember  in  our  weeping. 
Though  their  bodies  still  are  sleeping, 
That  our  faithful  dead  are  keeping 
Watch  above  tlie  living  here. 

Ours  the  hopes   of  saints  and  sages, 
Ours  to  spread  on  history's  pages 
Records   that  to  future  ages 
Show  a  people  grand,  sublime. 
Ours  to  tell  the  sweetest  story. 
Ours  to  teach  the  truest  glory. 
Till  the  wheeling  world  grows  hoary. 
And  we  near  the  end  of  time. 

Thus  our  gay  and  gleaming  garlands, 
Fairest  fruits  of  near  and  far  lands 
Tell  to  those  who  dwell  in  star  lands, 
What  is  now  and  is  to  be. 
Thus  our  deeds  to-day  are  showing 
How  the  breeze  of  peace  is  blowing, 
And  a  future  beyond  knowing, 
Waits  the  continent  of  the  free. 

U.  T,  Willet. 


56  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 


UNCROWNED   AMONG   THE    NATIONS. 

She  stands  uncrowned  among  the  nations  !  Her 
sufferings  have  been  unexampled  and  her  patient 
endurance  towers  up  among  the  facts  that  are 
pyramids  in  history.  After  driving  the  Danish 
viking  into  the  seas,  she  has  seen  the  Anglo-Norman 
robber  wave  his  banner  o'er  the  loveliest  spots  in 
her  realm.  But  througli  treachery  and  famine, 
through  glory  and  disgrace,  through  persecution  and 
death,  she  remains  after  a  thousand  years,  the  un- 
sullied Queen,  upon  whose  bright  escutcheon  there 
is  not  a  stain  save  the  silver  dropping  of  her  own 
tears. 

She  stands  uncrowned  among  the  nations,  a  weep- 
ing mother,  whose  only  solace  is  wandering  among 
the  tombs  of  her  children.  She  rests  her  wearied 
limlK  Upside  the  sarcophagus  of  O'Connell — and 
ov'jr  Ghisneviii  cemetery  spreads  a  glorious  Irish 
iwiliglit.  Above — the  sun  retiring  after  his  long 
jouiJiey  disrobes  on  the  horizon's  edge,  and  carelessly 
scatters  liis  garments  of  crimson,  emerald  and  gold, 
upon  the  floor  of  heaven.  The  lovely  queen  of 
night  glides  forth  upon  the  scene,  and  from  her  ebony 
sieve  shakes  whole  myriads  of  stars.  Below — the 
tall  shal'ts  of  monumental  granite  throw  their  long 
shadows,  like  a  canopy  of  black  spears,  over  tlie  little 
mounds  at  their  feet,  and  the  roses,  and  the  lilies, 
and  the  blue  forget-me-nots  in  their  circling  guard  of 
sliam rocks,  awake  from  their  vesper  sleep,  re-open 
their  petals,  and  telephone  in  odorous  voices  sweet 
greetings  to  their  shining  sisters  blossoming  in  the 
infinite  meadows  of  heaven.  The  soul  of  the  Liber- 
ator liovers  around  the  scene,  and  after  paying  the 
tribute  of  a  bended  knee  to  the  Lady  of  his  Love 
with  a  divine  wand,  he  touches  his  skeleton  body  in 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  57 

its  marble  shroud,  and  forth  from  the  fleshless  lips 
come  the  true  words  he  was  so  wont  to  use, 

"  Hereditary  bondmen,  know  ye  not 

Who  would  be  free  themselves  must  strike  the  blow." 

She  stands  uncrowned  among  the  nations!  The 
summer  sunlight  falls  unheeded  upon  the  curls  of 
her  golden  hair,  and  the  winter  frost,  unnoted,  scat- 
ters his  clusters  of  pearls  upon  her  livery  of  mourn- 
ing. 13ut  even  amid  the  hail,  the  rain,  and  the  storm, 
she  finds  it  ecstasy  to  sit  beside  the  window  of  John 
of  Tuam  and  listen  to  the  soft  strains  of  her  own 
harp  as  it  responds  in  melodious  voice  to  the  touch 
of  the  fast  withering  fingers  of  the  greatest  of  her 
living  sons.  And  when  the  songs  of  her  ancient 
bards  in  her  own  language  as  an  accompaniment  fall 
tremulously  from  his  aged  lips,  a  delirium  of  mem- 
ories crowd  upon  her  and  she  vanishes  in t^o  the  night. 

She  stands  uncrowned  amongthe  natioiis  !  Kneel- 
ing on  the  green  sward  of  Robert  Emmet's  grave 
and  resting  her  head  upon  its  unmarked  headstone, 
she  clasps  her  hands  around  it  and  in  an  agony  of 
pra3^er,  cries  out,  "  O,  my  God,  when  shall  his 
epitaph  be  written  ?  "  At  the  early  morning  she  is  in 
Clare  listening  to  Charles  Stewart  Parnell.-^  She  sees 
at  one  end  of  the  platform  the  Irish  flag  and  at  the 
other  the  American,  She  is  not  satisfied — clad  in 
her  royal  robes,  albeit  of  black,  she  ascends  that 
platform  and  taking  in  one  hand  her  own  banner  of 
green,  and  in  the  other  the  "Stars  and  Stripes," 
under  which  her  exiled  children  find  so  secure  a 
shelter,  with  her  own  deft  fingers,  she  irrevocably 
intertwines  them,  and  upon  their  dual  folds,  in  letters 
of  living  light,  she  inscribes  the  prophetic  device : 
"  These  together  shall  conquer." 

She  stands  uncrowned  among  the  nations  1  Doff- 
ing her  queenly  garments,  and  in  the  attire  of  a  felon, 
she  sits  beside  Michael  Davitt  in  his  lonely  prison 
cell.     Twinine  her  arms  about  his   neck  with  all  a 


58  HKADISr.S,  IlKCITATIONS. 

niotlser'.s  f*  ndncss  she  sings  to  liim  the  Irish  lulhibies 
of  his  babyhood,  and  in  accents  mournful  but  em- 
pliatic  bids  him  be  patient  for  God  is  just. 

She  stanels  uncrowned  among  the  nations!  The 
most  beautiful  type  tlie  world  has  ever  seen,  a  mother 
of  sons  who  liave  influenced  human  thought  and 
human  action  in  every  class  and  on  every  stage.  As 
did  Abraham  of  old,  she  has  offered  up  to  God,  for 
seven  hundred  years,  a  holocaust  of  her  children, 
though  He,  as  yet,  has  never  averted  the  sacrificial 
knife.  She  fashioned  the  brain  of  Burke,  and  silver- 
tipped  the  tongue  of  Grattan.  She  gave  Wellington 
liis  sword.  Swift  his  pen,  and  Moore  his  lyre.  From 
the  superabundance  of  her  jewels  she  presented 
Spain  with  O'Donnell,  Austria  with  Nugent,  France 
with  Sarsfield,  and  America  with  Meagher.  Yet 
with  all  her  beauty  and  with  all  her  intellect  she 
stands  alone  and  uncrowned  among  the  nations. 

But  when  she  is  crowned,  and  the  day  is  not  far 
distant,  the  tiara  that  encircles  her  forehead  will  be 
all  of  diamonds !  Crowned  with  freedom,  blessed 
with  happiness  !     God  speed  the  day ! 

J,  D,  Finney. 


ADOWN  THE  FIELD  TOGETHER. 

The  blackbird  pipes  his  solemn  notes 

Tiuougli  copse  and  dreamy  hollow ; 
The  air  is  fanned  by  myriad  wings 

Of  the  brown  low-flying  swallow; 
As  hand  in  hand,  at  twilight  hour, 

In  the  hazy  autumn  weather, 
A  lass  and  sun-brown  harvester 

Stroll  down  the  field  together. 

All  day  he  has  bound  the  yellow  sheaves 
With  a  patient  hand  and  willing, 

For  the  wealth  of  his  own  new  home  is  stored 
In  the  granary  he  is  fdling ; 


AND  IM'P]i:iiSONATIONS.  59 

And  all  the  gain  or  reward  he  asks, 
Is  to  know  that  through  the  heather 

A  lad  and  lassie  at  set  of  sun, 
Shall  roam  the  field  together. 

What  is  it  to  happy  hearts  and  young, 

That  the  sere,  sad  leaves  are  falling? 
They  hear  but  the  cheery  voice  of  love 

To  his  sweetheart  gently  calling; 
And  close  as  he  bound  the  yellow  sheaves 

In  the  gleaming  Autumn  weather, 
Sly  Cupid  binds  their  tender  hearts 

With  love's  gold  bands  together. 

The  field  of  stubble  will  soon  grow  brown 

The  frosts  will  chill  the  meadows. 
Highland  and  lowland — garden  and  lawn 

Will  fade  in  the  deep'ning  shadoAvs  ; 
But,  bright  as  the  sun  on  a  thousand  hills, 

Will  seem  the  Autumn  weather 
When  hand  in  hand  to  the  dear  old  kirk 

They  wend  their  way  together. 

On  and  on  tlio  yeai'S  shall  roll, 

And  sweeter  grows  love's  story. 
Till  head  of  biown,  and  head  of  gold 

Shall  lo.<e  youth's  crown  of  glory; 
Wliile  adowii  the  field  of  golden  sheaves, 

In  the  sombre  Autumn  weather, 
A  tottering  man,  a  feeble  dame, 

Shall  slowly  walk  together. 

Ah  !     Who  will  remember  the  harvest  hour. 

Of  the  youthful  maid  and  lover. 
When  life's  gray  sheaves  are  bound  at  last 

And  life's  brief  dream  is  over? 
When  the  fields  shall  o'er-run  with  weeds. 

And  none  shall  roam  the  heather, 
While,  side  by  side  in  the  old  kirk-yard 

The  twain  shall  rest  together. 

Louise  TIpham. 


J}  READINGS,  RKVITAT10N8, 


"THE  WORLD  FOR  SALE." 

The  world  for  sale  !  Hang  out  the  sign, 
Call  every  traveller  heie  to  me  : 
Who'll  buy  this  brave  estate  of  luine 
And  set  me  from  earth's  bondage  free? 
'Tis  going !     Yes,  I  mean  to  fling 
This  bauble  from  my  soul  away ; 
I'll  sell  it,  whatsoe'er  it  bring: 
The  world  at  auction  here  to-day  I 

It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  see ; 

Ah,  it  has  cheated  me  sore ! 

It  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be. 

For  sale  !     It  shall  be  mine  no  more. 

Come,  turn  it  o'er  and  view  it  well ; 

I  would  not  have  you  purchase  dear : 

'Tis  going !  go — ing !   I  must  sell ! 

Who  bids  ? — Who'll  buy  the  splendid  tear? 

Here's  wealth  in  glittering  heaps  of  gold : 
Who  bids  ? — But,  let  me  tell  you  fair, 
A  baser  lot  was  never  sold  : — 
Who'll  buy  the  heavy  heaps  of  care  ? 
And  here,  spread  out  in  broad  domain, 
A  goodly  landscape  all  may  trace  ; 
Hall,  cottage,  tree,  field,  hill  and  plain — 
Who'll  buy  himself  a  burial  place? 

Here's  Love,  the  dreamy,  potent  spell 
That  beauly  iliiigs  around  the  heart: 
I  know  its  power,  alas  !  too  well : 
'Tis  going  !    Love  and  I  must  part ! 
Must  part! — Wiiat  can  I  more  with  Love? 
All  over  the  enchanter's  reign  ; 
Who'll  buy  the  plumeless,  dying  dove, 
An  hour  of  bliss,  an  age  of  pain  ? 


AND  IMPZliSONAriONS.  61 

And  fi-iendsliii),  rarest  gem  of  earth, 
(Whoe'er  hath  found  the  jewel  his  ?) 
Frail,  fickle,  false  and  little  worth: 
Who  bids  for  friendsliip — as  it  is  ? 
'Tis  going  !  go — iiig  !     Henr  the  call : 
Once,  twice  and  thrice? — 'Tis  very  low! 
'TwMs  once  my  hope,  my  stay,  my  all; 
But  now  the  broken  sliaft  must  go ! 

Fame  !    Hold  tlie  brilliant  meteor  liigh. 
How  dazzling  every  gilded  name  ! 
Ye  millions,  now'sthe  time  to  buy! 
How  much  for  fame  ?     How  much  for  fame  ? 
Hear  how  it  thunders  !     Would  you  stand 
On  high  Olympus,  far  renowned? 
Now  purchase,  and  a  world  command! 
And  be  with  a  world's  curses  crowned. 

Sweet  star  of  hope  !  with  ray  to  shine 
In  every  sad,  foreboding  breast 
Save  this  desponding  one  of  mine: 
Who  bids  for  man's  last  friend  and  best? 
Ah,  were  not  mine  a  bankrupt  life, 
This  treasure  should  my  soul  sustain : 
But  Hope  and  I  are  now  at  strife, 
Nor  ever  may  unite  again. 

And  song  !  for  sale  my  tuneless  lute, 
Sweet  solace,  mine  no  more  to  hold ; 
The  chords  that  charmed  my  soul  are  mute ; 
I  cannot  wake  the  notes  of  old! 
Or  e'en  were  mine  a  wizard  shell. 
Could  chain  a  world  in  raptures  high, 
Yet  now,  a  sad  farewell !  farewell ! 
Must  on  its  last  faint  echoes  die. 

Ambition,  fashion,  show  and  pride, 
I  part  from  all  forever  now ; 
Grief,  in  an  overwhelming  tide, 
Has  taught  my  haughty  heart  to  bow 


62  RKA1JL\GS,   RECITATIONS, 

Poor  heart  !  distracted,  ali,  so  long, 
And  still  its  aching  throb  to  bear  ; 
Now  broken,  iliat  was  once  so  strong! 
Now  lieavy,  once  so  free  from  care ! 

No  more  for  me  life's  fitful  dream: 
Bright  visions,  vanishing  away  ! 
My  bark  requires  a  deeper  stream, 
My  sinking  soul  a  surer  stay. 
By  Death — stern  sheriff — all  bereft, 
I  weep,  yet  humbly  kiss  the  rod, 
The  best  of  all  I  still  have  left. 
My  Faith,  my  Bible,  and  mv  God. 


Ralph  Hoyt, 


THIRTEEN  AND  DOLLY. 

Oh,  Dolly,  dear  Dolly,  I'm  thirteen  to-day, 
And  surely  'tis  time  to  be  stopping  my  play ! 
My  treasures  so  childish  must  be  put  aside ; 
I  think,  Henrietta,  I'll  play  that  you  died ; 
I'm  growing  so  old,  that  of  course  it  won't  do 
To  care  for  a  doll}^ — not  even  for  you. 

Almost  a  young  lady,  I'll  soon  wear  a  train, 
And  do  up  my  hair;  but  I'll  never  be  vain ; 
I'll  study  and  study  and  grow  very  wise. — 
Come,  Dolly,  sit  up  now,  and  open  your  eyes : 
I'll  tie  on  this  cap  with  its  ruffles  of  lace, 
It  always  looks  sweet  round  your  beautiful  face. 

I'll  bring  out  your  dresses,  so  pretty  and  gay. 
And  fold  them  all  smoothly  and  put  them  away : 
This  white  one  is  lovel3%  with  sash  and  pink  bows- 
Ah,  I  was  so  happy  while  making  your  clothes  ! 
And  here  is  your  apron,  with  pockets  so  small. 
This  dear  little  apron,  'tis  nicest  of  all. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  63 

And  now  for  your  trunk,  I  will  lay  iheni  all  iu — 
Oh  Dolly,  dear  Dolly,  how  cim  I  begin  ! 
How  oft  of  our  journeys  I'll  think  with  a  sigh, 
We've  traveled  together  so  much,  you  and  I  ! 
All  over  the  lields  and  the  garden  we  went, 
And  pla3'ed  we  were  gypsies  and  lived  in  a  tent. 


We  tried  keeping  house  in  so  many  queer  ways. 
Out  under  the  trees  in  the  warm  summer  days  ! 
We  moved  to  the  arbor  and  played  that  the  flowers 
Were  housekeepers  too,  and  were  neighbors  of  ours. 
We  lived  in  tlie  hay-loft  and  slid  down  the  ricks, 
And  went  out  to  call  on  the  turkeys  and  chicks. 

Now  here  is  your  cradle  with  lining  of  blue, 

And  soft  little  pillow — I  know  what  I'll  do 

I'll  rock  you  and  sing  my  last  lullaby  song, 

And  I'll — No,  I  can't  give  you  up  !    'Twill  be  wrong ! 

So  sad  is  my  heart,  and  here  comes  a  big  tear — 

Come  back  to  my  arms,  oh,  you  precious  old  dear. 

JSt.  Nicholas  Magazine, 


EDINBURGH  AFTER  FLODDEN. 

News  of  battle !     News  of  battle  ! 

Hark  !  'tis  ringing  down  the  street ; 
And  the  archways  and  the  pavement 
Bear  the  clang  of  hurrying  feet. 
News  of  battle  !     Who  hath  brought  it  ? 

News  of  triumph  ?     Who  should  bring 
Tidings  from  our  noble  army. 

Greetings  from  our  gallant  King? 
All  last  night  we  watched  the  beacons 

Blazing  on  the  hills  afar. 
Each  one  bearing  as  it  kindled, 

Message  of  the  opened  war. 


64  HEADINGS,  BEClTAriONS, 

News  of  biitile  !     Wlio  hath  brought  it? 

All  are  tliroiigiiig  to  the  gate; 
"Warder — warder  I  o[)eii  quickly; 

Man — is  tliis  a  time  to  wait?" 
And  the  heavy  gates  are  opened: 

Then  a  murmur,  long  and  loud, 
And  a  cry  of  fear  and  wonder 

Bursts  from  out  the  bending  crowd. 
For  they  see  in  battered  harness 

Only  one  hard-stricken  man  ; 
And  his  weary  steed  is  wounded, 

And  his  cheek  is  pale  and  wan; 
Spearless  hangs  a  bloody  banner 

In  his  weak  and  drooping  hand — 
God!     Can  that  be  Uan«l()l[)h  Murray, 

Captain  of  the  cit}'  band  ? 

Round  him  crush  the  people,  crying, 

"  Tell  us  all ;  oh,  tell  us  true  ! 
Wliere  are  they  who  went  to  battle, 

Randolph  Murray,  sworn  to  you? 
Where  are  they,  our  brothers — children  ? 

Have  tliey  met  tlie  English  foe? 
Why  art  thou,  alone,  unfollowed  ? 

Is  it  weal  or  is  it  woe  ? 
By  the  God  that  made  thee,  Randolph  I 

Tell  us  what  mischance  hath  come." 

Then  he  lifts  his  riven  banner, 

And  the  asker's  voice  is  dumb. 
While  up  rose  the  Provost — 

A  brave  old  man  was  he. 
Of  ancient  name  and  knightly  fame, 

And  chivalrous  degree. 
For,  with  a  father's  pride. 

He  sav/  his  last  reuiaining  son 
Go  forth  by  Randolph's  side, 
With  casque  on  head  miuI  spur  on  lieel, 

All  keen  to  do  and  dare  ; 
And  proudly  did  that  gallant  boy 

Dunedin's  banner  bear. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  CB 

Oh !  woeful  now  was  tlie  old  man's  look, 

And  he  spake  right  heavily — 
"  Now,  Randolpli,  tell  thy  tidings, 

However  sharp  they  be  ! 
Woe  is  written  on  tliy  visage, 

Death  is  looking  from  thy  face, 
Speak !  though  it  be  of  overthrow, 

It  cannot  be  disgrace  ! " 

Randolph  gave  the  riven  banner 

To  the  Provost's  shaking  hand, 
Saying,  ''  That  is  all  I  bring  ye 

From  the  bravest  of  the  land. 
Ay  !  ye  may  look  upon  it — 

It  was  guarded  well  and  long. 
By  your  brothers  and  your  children, 

By  the  valiant  and  the  strong. 
One  by  one  they  fell  around  it. 

As  the  archers  laid  them  low, 
Grimly  dying,  still  unconquered, 

With  their  faces  to  the  foe. 
Ay  !  ye  may  look  upon  it, — 

There  is  more  than  honor  there, 
Else,  be  sure,  I  had  not  brought  it 

From  the  field  of  dark  despair. 
Never  yet  was  royal  banner 

Steeped  in  such  a  costly  dye  ; 
It  hath  lain  upon  a  bosom 

Where  no  other  shroud  shall  lie. 
Sirs !     I  charge  you,  keep  it  holy ; 

Keep  it  as  a  sacred  thing. 
For  the  stain  ye  see  upon  it 

Was  the  life-blood  of  your  King  I" 

Woe,  and  woe,  and  lamentation ! 

What  a  piteous  cry  was  there ! 
Widows,  maidens,  mothers,  children, 

Shrieking,  sobbing  in  despair! 
Then  the  Provost  uprose, 
5 


66  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

And  liis  lip  was  ashen  white ; 
But  a  flush  was  on  his  brow 

And  his  eye  was  full  of  light. 
"  Thou  hast  spoken,  Randolph  Murray, 

Like  a  soldier  stout  and  true  ; 
Thou  hast  done  a  deed  of  daring 

Had  been  perilled  but  by  few, 
For  thou  liast  not  shamed  to  face  us, 

Nor  to  speak  thy  ghastly  tale. 
Now,  as  my  God  shall  judge  me, 

I  hold  it  braver  done. 
Than  hadst  thou  tarried  in  thy  place, 

And  died  above  my  soji  ! 
Thou  need'st  not  tell  it ;  lie  is  dead. 

God  help  us  all  this  day  I 
But  speak — how  fought  tiie  citizens 

Within  tlie  furious  fniy  ? 
For  by  the  might  of  Maiy  ! 

'Twere  souiething  still  to  tell 
That  no  Scottish  foot  went  backward 

When  the  Royal  Lion  fell !  " 


*'No  one  failed  liim  !     He  is  keeping 

Roj^al  state  and  semblance  still; 
Knight  and  noble  lie  around  him, 

Cold  on  Flodden's  fatal  hill. 
Of  the  brave  and  gallant-hearted, 

Whom  you  sent  with  prayers  away. 
Not  a  single   man   departed 

From  his  monarch  yesterday, 
Had  you  seen  them,  C)  my  Mastei*s, 

When  the  night  began  to  fall, 
Every  stone  a  Scottish  body, 

Every  step  a  corpse  in  mail  I 
And  among  them  lay  our  monarch, 

Clenching  still  liis  shivered  sword ; 
By  his  side  Montrose  and  Atliole, 

At  his  feet  a  Southern  lord. 
All  so  thick  they  biy  together, 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  67 

When  the  stars  lit  up  the  sky, 
That  I  knew  not  who  were  stricken, 

Or  who  yet  remained  to  die. 
Few  there  were  when  Surrey  halted, 

And  his  wearied  host  withdrew  ; 
None  but  dying  nien  around  him 

When  the  English  trumpet  blew. 
Then  I  stooped,  and  took  the  banner 

As  you  see  it,  from  his  breast, 
And  I  closed  our  hero's  eyelids, 

And  I  left  him  to  his  rest. 
In  the  mountains  growled  the  thunder, 

As  I  leaped  the  wof  ul  wall, 
And  the  heavy  clouds  were  settling 

Over  Flodden,  like  a  pall." 

W.  E.  Aytoun, 


THE  CASE  OF  MRS.  MOLL. 

Mrs.  Rebecca  Moll  was  one  of  those  nnfortunate 
women  who  are  always  "  ailin'."  She  was  never  free 
from  a  "  misery  "  of  some  kind,  and  never  knew 
what  it  was  to  see  *'  a  well  day."  Her  conversation 
chiefly  referred  to  the  diseases  she  was  suffering 
from,  those  she  had  had,  and  those  she  expected  to 
have.  She  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  many  times  that 
"  four  doctors  had  given  her  up,"  and  Avhen  it  was 
confidently  supposed  that  "  every  breatli  would  be 
her  last."  Her  friends  were,  indeed,  somewhat  scep- 
tical in  regard  to  the  genuineness  of  Mrs.  Rebecca 
Moll's  maladies.  They  doubted  her  oft-repeated 
statement  that  she  had  had  the  small-pox,  the  genuine 
Asiatic  cholera,  and  the  yellow  fever;  for  it  was 
proved  that  on  the  day  following  tliat  on  which  all 
these  diseases  were  at  their  heiglit,  Mrs.  Moll  had 
walked  three  miles  to  a  quilting;  but  when  reminded 
of  this  fact  she  said,  calmly,  "•  Some  folks  git  over 
sickness  quicker'n  others,  and  I'm  one  of  that  kind." 


68  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

There  was  one  person  who  had  firm  faith  in  the  gen- 
uineness of  all  Mrs.  Moll's  maladies,  and  that  person 
was  her  patient  and  affectionate  husband,  Mr.  Pliny 
Moll.  *'  What  my  Becky  has  endoored  no  one  but 
me  and  her  knows,"  he  often  said,  earnestly.  "  Many 
an'  a-many's  the  time  I've  set  by  her  sick  bedside  an' 
said  to  myself, '  Is  she  a-breathin'  or  ain't  she  a-breath- 
iii'  ?  an'  I've.riz  to  my  feet  thinkin'  I  was  a  widow  man 
this  time — ^yes,  sir.  An'  ag'in  when  she's  been  sittin' 
right  in  her  chair  I've  looked  at  her  an'  said,  '  You 
dead,  Becky  Moll  ? '  an'  when  she'd  say,  so  feeble 
like,  '  I  ain't  quite^  Pliny,'  I've  said  to  myself,  '  Well, 
it  won't  be  long  'fore  you  will  be,  Becky  Moll,  if  you 
ain't  better  right  forthwith  an'  faster! '  " 

As  they  kept  no  servant,  great  domestic  confusion 
resulted  when,  as  was  frequently  the  case,  Mrs.  Moll 
had  to  be  almost  carried  to  bed  from  the  breakfast 
table,  leaving  Mi*.  Moll  to  wash  the  dishes  and  attend 
to  other  domestic  duties.  But  Mr.  Moll  made  no 
compLiint.  ^' Poor  Becky!  Poor  Becky  !  it's  a  sight 
harder  on  her  than  it  is  on  me." 

"  I  shall  never  get  up  again,  Pliny,  I'm  done  fer," 
she  said  to  her  husband,  one  day.  ''  I  don't  seem  to 
have  the  first  mite  of  stren'th,  an'  I've  a  kind  of  a 
feelin'  of  goneness  all  the  time.  There's  somethin' 
the  matter  of  my  back  an'  chist,  an'  it  ain't  long  I'll 
be  a  burden  to  you." 

Old  Doctor  Philbrick  was  called.  He  seemed  un- 
able to  understand  the  case  of  Mrs.  Moll,  but  told 
her  anxious  husband  that  he'd  *'  have  her  around  in 
a  few  daj^s."  "  No,  you  won't,"  said  Mrs.  Moll,  res- 
olutely. "Pliny  might  as  well  be  made  to  under- 
stand the  truth,  doctor,  an'  it  can't  be  kept  from  me  !  " 
Doctor  Philbrick  did  not  have  Mrs.  Moll  around  as 
he  predicted.  He  came  again  and  again,  and  seemed 
at  last  to  be  greatly  puzzled  over  the  case. 

"  Seems  as  though  she'd  ought  to  git  some  stren'th," 
said  Pliny  to  the  doctor.  "  Her  appetite  ain't  failed 
her  yet ;  she  eats  more'n  I  do — "  "  Plin  Moll,  that 
ain't  so  ! "  cried  his  wife,  indignantly.     "  Doctor,  it 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  69 

gives  me  pain  to  swallow  anything  at  all,  and  I  don't 
eat  enough  to  keep  a  bird  alive/* 

An  elderly  relative  of  Mr.  Moll's  called  "  Aunt 
*Cindy  "  had  by  this  time  been  installed  as  housekeeper 
and  nurse  to  Mrs.  Moll,  who  steadily  grew  worse, 
and  now  gave  daily  instructions  as  to  how  her  funeral 
should  be  conducted,  and  what  Pliny  should  do  when 
Bhe  was  gone.  "  You  shan't  go  'long  as  anything 
kin  be  done  fer  you  that  ain't  been  done.  An'  there's 
got  to  be  a  consultation  over  you,  Becky." 

•'  It  won't  do  any  good.  All  the  doctors  in  creation 
couldn't  tell  what's  the  matter  of  me.  It's  one  of 
them  cases  the  medical  perfession  ain't  got  up  to  yet, 
and  there  ain't  no  cure  for  it."  Nevertheless,  Mr. 
Moll  determined  to  have  a  consultation.  "  I've  done 
all  I  can  do,  Mr.  Moll,"  said  Doctor  Philbrick, "  I've 
bled  her  and  blistered  her  and  poulticed  her,  and 
given  her  a  great  deal  and  a  great  variety  of  medi- 
cine, and  yet  she  is  no  better.  I  really  think  there 
should  be  a  consultation." 

So  Doctor  Peevy  and  Doctor  Hobbson  were  called 
in.  "  You've  bled  her,  I  reckon  ? "  said  Doctor 
Peevy.  "Yes,  half  dozen  times."  "And  blistered 
her  ?  "  asked  Doctor  Hobbson.  "  Yes,  yes  ;  time  and 
again."  Mrs.  Moll  seemed  to  enjoy  the  prospect  of  a 
consultation.  "  I  know  that  forty  dozen  consultations 
wouldn't  cure  me.  Pve  had  so  many  diseases  my 
system  is  all  wore  out  and  I  ain't  a  mite  o'  stren'th 
left.  Pve  endoored  all  one  pore  human  frame  kin 
endoor,  and  I'm  convinced  that  Pve  got  an'  incura- 
ble complaint  now.  My  grandmother's  aunt  lay  in 
bed  two  years,  just  as  I'm  doin',  'fore  she  died,  and 
Pliny  had  a  second  cousin  go  off  jist  as  I'm  goin', 
and  nobody  knowed  what  ailded  him.  It  runs  in 
the  fam'ly  and  there's  no  use  fightin'  ag'in  it.  If  I 
live  through  the  consultation  it's  'bout  all  I  expect 
to  do." 

"Please  put  out  your  tongue,  ma'am,"  said  Doc- 
tor Peevy,  while  Doctor  Hobbson  felt  her  pulse. 
Then  Mrs.  Moll  was  put  through  such  a  long  cate- 


70  BEADING S,  liECITATIONS, 

chism  of  questions,  and  subjected  to  such  a  thump- 
ing of  the  chest  and  pounding  of  the  back  that  her 
"  feeble  stren'th  "  was  subjected  to  a  severe  strain. 
The  examination  of  the  patient  lasted  for  a  full  hour, 
and  then  the  trio  of  physicians  withdrew  to  the 
orchard  a  short  distance  from  the  house,  to  consult 
together. 

No  sooner  were  the  doctors  out  of  the  house  than 
Mrs.  Moll  called  Aunt  'Cindy.  "  Where's  Pliny  ?  " 
"I  see  him  goin' out  toward  the  medder  lot  when 
the  doctors  come,"  replied  Aunt  'Cindy.  "He 
seemed  to  be  too  worrited  and  uneasy  to  stay  in  the 
house  while  this  here  powwow  was  goin'  on."  "  Pore 
man !  "  said  Mrs.  Moll.  '•  It'll  be  hard  on  him  to 
give  me  up,  but  he's  got  it  to  do.  My  stren'th  is 
goin'  faster  ever}^  day.  I  wish  you'd  tell  Pliny  I 
want  him,  and  then  Pd  like  you  to  make  me  some 
b'iled  apple  dumplin's  and  b'ile  me  a  piece  of  cabbage. 
I'm  fagged  out  I've  got  to  have  somethin'  for  dinner." 

There  stood  in  the  meadow  lot  a  solitary  oak  tree, 
to  the  shade  of  which  Pliny  always  withdrew  when 
he  was  in  the  mood  for  solitary  reflection.  "  I'm 
afeered  they'll  do  her  no  good,"  he  said,  with  his 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes  as  he  lay  under  the  branches 
of  the  tree.  *'  Nothing  but  a  maracle  will  help 
Becky,  now,  and  the  age  of  maracles  is  gone.  Poor 
Becky !  "  and  little  Mr.  Moll  was  weeping  softly  in  his 
red  cotton  handkerchief  when  Aunt  'Cindy  found 
him. 

"  Well,  Plin  Moll,  you  ain't  bellerin'  ?  What  for  ? 
If  there's  anything  to  cry  fer  /ain't  seen  it  nor  yit 
heerd  it ! "  "  O,  'Cindy !  What  do  they  say  'bout 
Becky?  Has  she  lived  through  it?"  *'  Well,  she's 
alive  enough  to  want  cabbage  and  dumplin's  for  din- 
ner, so  I  reckon  there's  a  little  vitiality  left.  The 
doctors  are  powwowin'  out  in  the  orchard,  and  Becky 
wants  you.  You'd  better  come  right  in,  and  if  I  was 
you,  Plin  Moll,  I'd — for  the  land's  sake  !  the  house  is 
on  fire,  as  sure  as  I'm  a  livin'  woman  !  " 

Mr.  Moll  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  bound,  and  ran 


AND  IMPEliSONATIONS.  71 

madly  after  the  fleeing  Aunt  'Cindy.  They  met  the 
doctors  at  the  back  gate,  and  all  ran  into  the  house, 
Mr.  Moll  crying  out :  ''  She'll  be  scared  and  burned 
to  death  !  Git  Becky  out  lirst  thing  !  We're  comin', 
Becky  !  Keep  ca'ni — we'll  save  you  !  "  '  Tlie  whole 
party  rushed  into  the  front  hall  of  tlie  house,  and 
there  they  belield  a  singular  and  unexpected  sight. 
It  was  Mrs.  Moll  half-way  downstairs  with  a  huge 
feather-bed  on  lier  back  !  **  Becky  Moll !  Why, 
Becky,  you'll  — — " 

*'  Now  don't  yon  lose  your  wits  at  this  time  when 
you  need  'em  the  niost,  Pliny,"  said  Mrs.  Moll,  sharply. 
"I'll  manage  this  feather-bed,  and  you  go  up  and 
begin  throwin'  things  out  of  the  winders.  Don't  you 
forgit  my  black  silk  dress.  You  doctors  better  pull 
up  the  carpets,  and  'Cindy,  you  git  my  gold  band 
chany  tea-set  out  all  right.  I'll  come  back  and  'tend 
to  my  silver  spoons  and  forks  soon  as  I  get  this  new 
feather-bed  out.  Fly  around,  all  of  5^ou  !  There 
ain't  no  time  to  lose  !  Get  my  Avinter  cloak,  Pliny, 
it's  bran'-new%  and  it's  got  to  do  me  five  years  yit! 
Here,  Doctor  Philbrick,  you  and  Doctor  Peevy  carry 
out  the  parlor  sofy !  'Cindy,  'Cindy,  fly  around ! 
Get  ev'rything  out  of  the  pantry  !  "  Mrs.  Moll  had 
been  the  last  to  leave  the  burning  building.  She 
came  rushing  out  with — a  big  blue-edged  platter  in 
one  hand,  a  pewter  teapot  in  the  other.  Carrying 
them  to  a  place  of  safety,  she  climbed  over  the  fence 
and  dropped  down  on  the  feather-bed,  saying,  as  she 
did  so  :  *'  Pliny,  bring  me  a  quilt  or  something  to 
throw  over  me  !  I  look  scand'lous  !  Pm  afeerd  this'U 
give  me  an  awful  back-set !  Well,  Doctor  Philbrick, 
what  do  you  make  out  is  the  matter  of  me  ?  " 

"  There  ain't  nothing  the  matter  of  you,  Becky 
Moll ;  that's  what  there  ain't !  Ain't  that  so,  Doctor 
Peevy?  "  ''  Yes,  it  is,  Hobbson  thinks  so,  too,  don't 
you,  Hobbson  ?  "  "  Of  course  I  do ! "  replied  Doctor 
Hobbson.  This  was  far  from  the  conclusion  at  which 
tlie  learned  doctors  had  arrived  while  in  the  orchard  ; 
but  the  opinions  of  the  most  learned  men  are  subject 


72  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

to  change.  "I  should  think  you'd  Ije  ashamed  to 
talk  to  a  dyiu'  woman  like  that !  " 

The  household  goods  were  carried  into  a  small  but 
quite  comfortable  old  house  across  the  road.  The 
neighbors  lent  their  assistance  in  arranging  the  furni- 
ture, and  by  night  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moll  found  them- 
selves comfortably  installed  in  their  old  home,  with 
most  of  their  effects  around  them.  Then  Aunt  'Cindy 
and  Mr.  Moll  held  a  consultation.  '•'  See  here,  Pliny  ; 
I'm  goin'  home.  I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  here  any  longer 
doing  for  a  woman  that's  as  well  as  I  am,  if  she'd  only 
think  so.  I'm  a  believer  in  the  mind  cure  for  Becky  ; 
for  if  she  only  thought  she  was  well  she'd  be  well." 

In  fifteen  minutes  she  was  gone.  Mr.  Moll  rose, 
and  went  into  the  house  and  into  the  bedroom  in 
which  Mrs.  Moll  was  lying. 

*' Becky,  Aunt  'Cindy's  gone,  and  I  reckon  if  you 
want  any  supper  to-night  you'll  have  to  git  up  and 
git  it.  I'm  goin'  out  to  milk  the  cows  now,  and  I 
wish  you'<l  have  some  flannel  cakes  for  supper  when 
I  come  in."  Wiien  she  lieard  Pliny  speak  now,  she 
knew  tiiat  he  meant  all  he  said.  She  herself  was  very 
hungry  after  her  exertion  at  the  fire,  antl  Pliny  found 
her  frying  eggs  and  cakes,  and  making  an  appetizing 
cup  of  coifee  when  he  came  in  with  his  pail  of  foamy 
milk. 

That  was  the  last  of  her  "  incurable  malady,"  and 
the  last  of  many  of  her  other  diseases.  She  died  of 
old  age  twenty-five  years  later.  Harbour^  in  Youths' 
Companion, 


THE  DOLLS'  TEA  PARTY. 

The  dolls  had  a  tea  party  ;  wasn't  it  fun? 
In  ribbons  and  lace  they  came,  one  by  one. 
We  girls  set  the  table  and  poured  out  the  tea; 
And  each  of  us  held  up  a  doll  on  her  knee. 


AND  IMPERSONATlON-8.  73 

You  never  saw  children  behave  half  so  well' 
Wh3%  nobody  had  any  gossip  to  tell! 
And  (can  you  believe  it?)  tor  badness,  that  day, 
No  dolly  was  sent  from  the  tiible  away. 

One  dolly,  however,  the  proudest  one  there, 
Was  driven  almost  to  the  verge  of  despair, 
Because  she  had  met  with  a  simple  mishap 
And  upset  the  butter-plate  into  her  lap. 
The  cups  and  the  saucers,  they  shone  lily-white; 
We  helped  all  the  dollies,  they  looked  so  polite, 
We  had  cake  and  jam  from  our  own  pantry  shelves; 
Of  course,  we  did  most  of  the  eating  ourselves. 

But  housewives  don't  know  when  their  cares  may 

begin. 
The  window  was  opened  and  pussy  popped  in; 
She  jumped  on  the  table  ;  and  whatdo3'Ou  think? 
Down  fell  all  the  crockery  there  in  a  wink. 
We  picked  up  the  pieces  with  many  a  sigh;  . 
Our  party  broke  up  and  we  all  said  gooa-bye ; 
Do  come  to  our  next  one  ;  but  then  we'll  invite 
That  very  bad  pussy  to  keepoutof  sight. 


THE  VICTORY  OF  THE  FROSTS. 

One  sweet  September  morn — so  sweet  a  morn 
As  one  might  well  believe  was  born  in  heaven, 
I  looked  out  from  my  window  height,  and  saw 
The  silent,  white  encampment  of  the  frosts. 
Specking  the  green  hill-side  with  many  tints. 
"  There's  war  in  that,"  I  said  ;  "  such  bold  array 
Means  death  to  all  fair,  fragile,  helpless  things." 

And  so  I  shut  my  window  with  a  sigh. 

And  thought  of  the  dead  summer's  holy  realm 

That  she  had  left  as  autumn's  legacy ; 


74  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

And  wonaered  if,  amid  his  groaning  vats, 
Gorged  with  the  vineyard's  and  the  orchard's  wealth, 
He  would  be  mindful  of  the  sweet,  frail  things 
That  had  been  left  his  charge  by  the  dead  Queen. 

I  looked  again,  when  in  the  clear,  blue  sky. 
The  brave  strong  sun  rode  in  high  state  at  noon, 
And  lo  !  of  all  that  vast  array,  no  tint 
Lingered  to  mark  the  first  alarm  of  war. 
1  said,  "  The  frost  king  feared  to  meet  the  sun. 
And  so,  at  his  approach,  has  fled  away." 

Next  morn  I  looked  again,  and  lo !  again 

The  white  tints  glistened  thickly,  as  before, 

But  when  the  sun  approached,  they  all  were  gone. 

So  was  it  many  morns  ;  but,  ah  !  one  day 

I  looked  out,  and  my  heart  sighed  heavily, 

t'or  over  all  the  landscape  crimson  stains 

Told  of  the  conflict  and  the  victory ; 

And  then  I  knew  that  in  the  silent  night 

The  stealthy,  cruel  frosts  had  done  their  work- 

Oh  !  it  was  pitiful  and  sad  to  see 

The  green  crown  of  the  ancient,  kingly  oak 

All  dabbled  with  the  crimson  stains  of  war, 

While  all  around  his  feet  lay,  dead  and  pale, 

The  sweet  things  that  he  might  not  e'en  protect, 

Since  he  could  not  protect  himself!     I  heard 

Him  sigh  and  whisper,  oh!  so  mournfully. 

To  the  fair  maple  growing  at  his  side, 

Dabbled,  like  him,  with  blood,  save  that  her  stains 

Were  brighter,  because  womanly  hearts  do  give 

Their  richest  life-tide,  if  it  be  required. 

And  she,  the  maple,  lifted  up  her  hands. 

And  touched  his  forehead  with  a  soft  caress. 

That  seemed  at  once  to  soothe  and  strengthen  him, 

And  so  his  sigh  grew  gentle  and  more  low. 

So  I  went  out  and  kissed  the  crimson  stains 
Upon  the  meek,  fair  maple,  and  I  pressed 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  75 

Her  bleeding  hands  against  my  weary  brow, . 
And  said,  "  Jiaptize  nie  with  thy  ebbing  life. 
That  when  the  frosts  of  time  slay  all  my  bloom 
I  may  be  beautiful  as  thou  art  now," 
Then  she  spread  out  her  hands  above  mj^  head, 
And  murmured  softly,  like  a  mother  praying, 
And  sprinkled  crimson  on  my  bended  head, 
And  tore  a  fragment  from  lier  blood-dyed  robe, 
And  gave  it  me,  a  dear  remembrancer 
Of  how  'i  queen  can,  uncomplaining,  die. 

Avanelle  Holomes. 


LOST  IN  THE  SEA  FOG. 

The  night  was  dark  upon  the  sea,  and  chill- 

The  fog  hung  o'er  the  weary  mariner. 

As  off  New  England's  rocky  shore;' 

His  frail  baique  tossed  on  the  Atlantic  wave. 

No  moon  nor  star  looked  down 

To  guide  him  o'er  the  trackless  deep. 

All,  all  was  gloom  ! 

The  deep,  dense  fog  hung  o'er  him 

I^ike  a  midnight  pall  over  a  silent  world 

Or  lit  sable  shroud  o'er  the  newly  dead. 

No  sound,  Ksave  the  moaning  of  the  distant  thunder, 

The  wild  shriek  of  tlie  ocean  bird 

Or  tlie  restless   wave,   dashing  against   the   lonely 

barque. 
Tlie  thought  of  home;  of  loved  ones  waiting  there, 
Had  nerved  the  fatlier's  arm. 

His  wife,  I'is  boy,  his  humble  cottage 
On  tlie  distant  shore,  were  dear  to  him,- 
The  thonsfht  renewed  his  strenorth 
And  desperately  lie  plied  the  oar, 
Wliile  despair  and  hope  alternate  rose. 
For  the  Father's   love  burned  pure  a-s  "  the  star  of 
eve.' 


76  READINGS,  BECITATIONS, 

And  constant  as  the  cynosure. 
At  hust  when  exliausted,  chilled. 
The  lost  and  stricken  one. 
Tossed  on  the  inidniglit  wave. 
Fell  upon  his  knees 
And  lifted  up  his  voice  in  pinyor. 

"Oh  God!  tiiou  who  jjearest  the  mourner's  sigh. 

Thou,  who  reign'st  supreme  o'er  all  the  world, 

HeaT!  oIj,  hear,  my  humble  prayer! 

Father  thou  knowest  wliat  I  would  ask  of  thee, 

If  I  must  perish  here,  be  thou  their  prop  and  stay, 

And  let  me  caliiily  die. 

Yet,  oh  Father,  if  it  please  thee 

I  would  live,  gladly  live,  for  them; 

But  Thy  will,  not  mine." 

"  This  way,  my  father  ! " 

"  Husi»  I  iiark!     What  voice  was  that? 

It  is — no  it  cannot  be — but  that  voice — ^" 

"Tliis  way,  my  father!" 

*'  It  is  !  it  is  my  boy  ! 

I  hear  him,  high  on  that  rocky  cliff. 

I  come  !  I  come  !     Thy  father  comes! 

God  bless  my  boy!' 

Guided  by  that  voic  e, 

The  father  reached  the  shore 

And  found  his  noble  bo}' 

Chilled,  prostrate  on  that  rocky  cliff, 

Where,  through  tho  long,  long  weary  night 

He  lay,  sending  out  his  clear  sweet  voice 

O'er  the  darkened  wave 

To  guide  the  wanderer  home. 

Enfolded  in  his  father's  arms, 

The  dying  bay  looked  up. 

And  smiling  through  his  tears,  murmured  low, 

"  Father,  I  thought  that  you  would  come." 


AND  IMPEllSONATl'^NS.  77 

Geiitlv  tlie  father  bore  to  liis  cottage  liome 

His  little  boy.     Softly  the  shades  of  death 

Settled  upon  that  pallid  brow, 

Parents  kneeled  beside  tliat  lowly  couch, 

A  father's  tear  was  on  his  cheek, 

And  unseen  angels  hovering  near 

On  snowy  wings,  bore  away  a  mother's  prayer 

And  a  bright  young  spirit  home  to  heaven. 

And  now  when  long,  long  years  have  passed 
At  the  silent  midnight  hour. 
An  old  man,  with  thin  white  locks 
Is  seen  standing  on  that  rocky  cliff, 
And  he  seems  to  hear  an  angel's  voico 
Calling  from  the  pearly  gates  ajar, 
"  Come  this  way,  my  father, 

Steer  straight  for  me, 

Here  safely  in  heaven^ 

I'm  waiting  for  thee.'^ 


THE  CHARIOT  RACE. 

The  circus  at  Antioch  stood  on  the  south  bank 
of  the  river.  At  the  beginning  of  the  third  hour, 
the  audience  was  assembled. 

Looking  westward  across  the  sanded  arena,  there 
is  a  pedestal  of  marble,  supporting  three  low  conical 
pillars  of  gray  stone.  Many  an  eye  will  be  turned 
toward  those  pillars,  before  the  day  is  done,  for  they 
are  the  first  goal^  and  mark  the  beginning  and  end 
of  the  race  course.  Behind  the  pedestal,  leaving  a 
passage-way,  commences  a  wall  ten  or  twelve  feet  in 
breadth  and  five  or  six  feet  in  height,  extending 
thence  two  hundred  yards.  At  the  further  extremity 
of  the  wall,  there  is  another  pedestal  surmounted  with 
pillars  which  mark  the  second  goal.  The  racers  will 
enter  the  course  on  the  right  of  the  first  goal,  and 
keep  the  wall  all  the  time  to  their  left. 


78  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

At  last  a  flourish  of  trumpets  called  for  silence, 
and  instantly  the  gaze  of  over  one  liundred  thousand 
persons  was  directed  towards  the  entrance.  Slowly 
across  the  arena  the  procession  proceeds  to  make 
circuit  of  the  course.  The  first  greeting  of  the 
enthusiastic  multitude  was  one  of  wild  uproar,  fol- 
lowed by  showers  of  wreaths  and  garlands  tossed  to 
tlje  charioteers,  from  the  balcony.  A  horseman 
accompanies  each  one  of  them  except  Ben-Hur,  who 
for  some  reason — possibly  distrust — has  chosen  to  go 
alone ;  so  too  they  are  all  helmeted  but  him.  Here 
they  come  all  abreast — Ben-Hur  the  Jew,  Messala 
the  lloman.  Also  the  Byzantine,  Sidonian  and 
Corinthian.  As  the  charioteers  move  on  in  the  cir- 
cuit the  excitement  increases,  at  the  second  goal  the 
people  exhaust  their  flowers  and  rive  the  air  with 
screams. 

''  Messala  !    Messala !  " 

"  Ben-Hur  !     Ben-Hur  !  " 

"  Ah,  by  Bacchus!  was  he  not  handsome ?" ex- 
claimed a  woman  whose  Romanism  is  betrayed  by 
the  colors  of  scarlet  and  gold  streaming  from  her  hair. 
''And  how  splendid  his  chariot !  It  is  all  ivory  and 
gold.     Jupiter  grant  he  wins  !  " 

'*A  hundred  shekels  on  tlie  Jew,"  screamed  a 
shrill  voice. 

"  Nay,  be  thou  not  rash  !  The  children  of  Jacob 
will  bear  poor  chance  in  the  Gentile  sports." 

"•  True,  but  saw  you  ever  one  more  cool,  and  as- 
''ured  ?     And  what  an  arm  he  lias  I  " 

''  And  what  horses  !  "  says  a  third. 

"  Yes,  and  he  is  even  handsomer  than  the  Roman  !  " 
exclaimed  a  pretty  woman  just  behind  the  first 
speakers. 

''  A  hundred  shekels  on  the  Jew !  " 

'•Tliou  fool!  knowcst  thou  not  there  are  fifty 
talents  laid  against  him,  six  to  one  on  IMessala?  Put 
up  thy  shekels  lest  Abraham  rise  and  smite  thee  '  " 

''lia!  Ha!  Cease  thy  bray.  Knowcst  thou  not 
it  was  Messala  betting  on  himself !  " 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  79 

Just  then  the  spectator  leaning  far  over  the  balcony 
and  gazing  into  the  pale  rigid  countenance  of  Ben-Hur, 
knew  that  his  mind  was  turned  back  upon  the  wrongs 
and  injuries  of  the  past,  and  could  see  by  the  unusual 
flush  that  now  and  then  burned  on  liis  cheek,  that  he 
felt  within  himself  that  his  hour  of  triumph  was  near, 
when  he  should  humble  the  haughty  Messala,  who 
years  before  had  thrown  his  mother  and  sister  into 
prison  and  condemned  him  to  work  as  a  galley  slave  I 

Just  then,  a  new  party — Simonides,  Ilderim,  Bal- 
thazar, Esther  and  Iras,  entered  and  took  their  reserved 
seats  close  by  the  balustrade  overlooking  the  Arena. 
Esther  cast  a  frightened  look  over  the  Circus  and  drew 
the  veil  closer  about  her  face,  while  the  Egyptian,  let- 
ting her  veil  fall  upon  her  shoulders,  gave  herself  up 
to  the  intense  interest  of  the  occasion. 

"  Did  you  ever  seo  Messala  ?  "  asked  Iras. 

The  Jewess  shuddered  as  she  answered  no.  If  not 
her  father's  enemy,  the  Roman  was  Ben-Hur's. 

"  There,  look  !  "  cried  Iras  pointing  to  Messala.  "  I 
see  him  !  "  answered  Esther,  looking  at  Ben-Hur. 

Just  then  they  were  diverted  by  the  tremulous 
voice  of  old  Ilderim  a  little  behind  them. 

"  Heaven  help  tliee,  Ben-Hur  !  To  none  other  than 
thy  strong  arm  and  steady  nerve  would  I  have  trusted 
my  beautiful  Arabs.  If  they  are  beaten,  I  pray  it  be  by 
some  other  than  Messala." 

The  competitors  were  now  under  view  from  nearly 
every  part  of  tlie  Circus.  The  arena  swam  in  a  dazzle 
of  light.  Up  the  vast  assemblage  arose,  and  leaping 
upon  the  benches,  filled  the  Circus  Avith  yells  and 
screams. 

Just  then  Messala  shook  out  his  long  lash,  loosed 
the  reins,  leaned  forward,  and  with  a  triumphant 
shout  took  the  wall. 

"  Jove  with  us  !  Jove  with  us  !  "  yelled  all  the 
Roman  faction  in  a  frenzy  of  delight. 

"  He  wins  !  He  wins  !  "  answered  his  associates, 
seeing  Messala  speed  on. 

On  swept  the  Corinthian,  on  the  Byzantine,  on  the 
Sidonian. 


80  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Esther  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Where  was 
?en.Hur? 

**  A  hundred  sestertii  on  the  Jew ! "  cried  San- 
ballat. 

'*  Taken  ! "  answered  Drusus. 

"  Another  hundred  on  the  Jew." 

"  Messala  !  Jove  with  us  !  " 

"Another  hundred  on  the  Jew!  " 

Esther  dropped  her  liaiids,  and  with  unconcealed 
deliglit  beheld  Ben-Hur  again  to  the  front,  coursing 
freely  forward  along  with  the  Roman.  The  race  was 
on  ;  the  souls  of  the  racers  were  in  it.  And  now  side 
by  side  the  two  neared  the  second  goal. 

"Down  Eros,  up  Mars! "  shouted  Messala,  whirl- 
ing his  lash  with  practiced  hand.  "Down  Eros,  up 
Mars,"  lie  repeated  and  caught  the  beautiful  Arabs  of 
Ben-Hur,  a  cut  the  like  of  which  they  had  never 
known.  The  blow  was  seen  by  the  excited  multitude, 
and  from  every  quarter  burst  the  indignant  cry  of 
the  people.  The  four  sprang  forward  affrighted,  no 
hand  had  ever  been  laid  upon  them  except  in  love. 
They  had  been  nurtured  most  tenderly.  Forward 
they  sprang  Jis  from  death,  and  forward  leaped  the 
car. 

Where  got  Ben-Hur  the  large  hand  and  mighty 
grip  which  helped  him  now  so  well?  Where,  but 
from  the  oar  with  which  so  long  he  had  fought  the 
sea?  So  he  kept  his  place,  and  gave  the  four  free 
rein  and  called  to  them  in  soothing  voice,  trying 
merely  to  guide  them  round  the  dangerous  turn,  and 
before  the  fever  of  the  people  began  to  abate  he  had 
back  the  mastery,  and  was  again  moving  side  by  side 
with  Messala. 

Gradually  the  speed  quickened.  On  all  the  benches 
the  spectators  bent  forward  motionless. 

"  A  hundred  sestertii  on  the  Jew  ! "  cried  San- 
ballat. 

"  I  will  take  thy  sestertii,"  answered  a  Roman. 

'•*  Do  not  so,"  interposed  a  friend. 

"Why?" 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  81 

'-  rJecjiuse  Messahi  hath  reached  liis  utmost  speed. 
See  him  lean  over  his  chariot-rim,  his  reins  h)ose. 
Ijook  now  at  the  Jew.  l>y  Hercules,  the  dog  throws 
all  iiis  weight  on  the  bits.  If  the  gods  help  not  our 
Roman  he  will  be  run  away  with  by  that  Israelite. 
No,  not  yet,  look  !     Jove  with  us  !  " 

If  it  were  true  that  Messala  had  reached  his  utmost 
speed,  the  elTort  was  with  effect.  Slowly  but  cer- 
tainly he  was  beginning  to  forge  ahead.  His  horses 
were  running  with  their  heads  low  down.  Tiieir  bodies 
appeared  actually  to  skim  the  earth.  How  long  could 
they  keep  the  i)ace?  It  was  but  the  commencement 
of  the  sixth  round.  On  they  dashed.  As  they  neared 
the  second  goal,  Ben-Hur  turned  in  behind  the 
Roman's  car. 

The  joy  of  the  Messala  faction  reached  its  bound  ; 
they  screamed  and  howled.  Esther  scarcely  breathed. 
Iras  alone  seemed  glad.  When  the  turn  was  com- 
pleted the  two  were  abreast  once  more.  As  they 
wliirled  by,  Esther  saw  Ben-Hur's  face  again,  and  it 
was  whiter  than  before.  Ilderim  leaned  forwaid, 
and  whispeied,  "Saw  you  how  clean  the  Arabs 
were,  and  fiesh?  By  the  splendor  of  Jove,  they 
have  not  been  running:  but  now  watch  !  "  *' Ben- 
Hur!  Ben-Hur!''  shouted  the  blunt  voices  of  all 
the  factions  but  the  Roman. 

"Speed  the  Jew;  take  the  wall  now."  "On! 
loose  the  A rabs !  give   them  rein  and  scourge." 

"  Let  liim  not  have  the  turn  on  thee,  now  or 
never." 

At  that  moment  Ben-Hur  leaned  forv/ard  over  his 
Arabs  and  gave  tliem  the  reins.  Out  flew  the  many 
folded  lash  in  his  Iiand,  over  the  backs  of  the 
startlctl  steeds,  it  writhed  and  hissed  and  ]iis>e«i  .ind 
writhed  again  and  again,  and  though  it  fell  not, 
there  were  both  sting  and  menace  in  its  quick  report. 
And  instantly  the  Arabs  answered  with  a  leap  that 
landed  them  along  side  the  Roman  car.  MessaLi 
dared  not  look  to  see  what  the  awakening  portended. 
Above  the  noises  of  the    race,   there   was   but  on 3 

G 


82  READINGS,  IIECITATIONS, 

voice,  and  that  was   Ben-Hur's  as  he  called  to  the 
gallant  Arabs." 

"On,  A'^^air!  On,  Rigel !  what,  Antares,  dost 
thou  linger  now?  Good  horse — Oho,  Aldebaran !  I 
liear  them  singing  in  the  teiits.  1  hear  tlie  children 
singing,  and  the  women  singing  of  the  stars,  of  Atair, 
Antares,  Rigel,  Aldebaran,  victory,  victory!  and  the 
song  will  never  end.  AVell  done!  Home  to-morrow, 
under  the  black  tent!  Home!  On,  Antares!  Tiie 
tribe  is  waitinc:  for  us  and  the  master  is  waiting? ! 
'Tis  done  !  'Tis  done  !  Ha,  ha  !  Steady  !  Tlie  work 
is  done — so  ho!  Rest!"  Beu-Hur  turns  the  first 
goal.     And  the  race  was  won  ! — Gen,  Leiv    Wallace. 


WHAT   MAKES  THE   GRASSES   GROW? 

I  closed  my  book,  for  nature's  book 

Was  opening  that  day  ; 

And  witii  a  weary  brain  I  took 

IMy  hat,  and  wandered  toward  the  brook 

That  ill  the  meadow  hiy, 

And  tliere  beside  the  tiny  tide, 

I  found  a  child  ai  play. 

Prone  on  tlie  sward,  its  little  toes 

Wronght  dimples  in  the  sand. 

Its  cheeks  were  fairer  than  the  rose, 

I  heard  it  murmur,  "  Mamma  knows. 

But  I  not  understand." 

While  all  unharmed  a  dainty  blade 

Of  grass  was  in  its  hand. 

"  Wiiat  wonldst  thou  know,  my  little  one?" 

Said  1  with  bearing  wise  ; 

For  I,  who  thought  to  weigh  the  sun, 

And  trace  the  course  where  planets  run, 

And  grasp  their  mysteries. 

Unto  a  baby's  cjuestionings 

Couhl  sure)}'  m.ike  replies. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  S3 

"  What  wouldst  thou  know  ?  "  again  I  said, 

And  gently  bowing  low 

I  stroked  its  lialf-nplifted  head. 

With  chubby  hand  it  grasped  the  blade 

And  answered:  "  Oo  will  know  ; 

For  oo  has  whixers  on  oo  face, 

What  makes  the  grasses  grow?  '* 

*'  Last  fall,"  I  said,  "a  grass-seed  fell 

To  the  earth  and  went  to  sleep. 

All  winter  it  slept  in  its  cozy  cell 

Till  spring  came  tapping  upon  its  shell ; 

Then  it  stin'ed  and  tried  to  peep 

With  its  little  green  eye,  right  up  to  the  sky, 

And  then  it  gave  a  leap. 

"  For  the  sun  was  warm,  and  the  earth  was  fair. 

It  felt  the  breezes  blow. 

It  turned  its  cheek  to  the  soft,  sweet  air, 

And  a  current  of  life  so  rich  and  rare 

Came  up  from  its  roots  below; 

It  grew  and  kept  growing;  and  that,  my  child, 

Is  the  reason  the  grasses  grow.'' 

"  Oo  talks  des  like  as  if  oo  s'pose 

I's  a  baby,  and  I  don't  know 

'Bout  nuffin' !     But  babies  and  every  one  knows 

That  grasses  don't  think ;  for  thej  only  grows. 

My  mamma  has  told  me  so. 

Wliat  makes  'em  start,  an'  get  bigger  an'  bigger? 

What  is  it  that  makes  'em  grow  ?  " 

How  could  I  answer  in  words  so  plain 

That  a  baby  could  understand  ? 

Ah,  how  could  I  answer  my  heart !  'Twere  vain 

To  talk  of  the  union  of  sun  and  rain 

In  the  rich  and  fruitful  land  ; 

For  over  them  all  was  the  mystery 

Of  will  and  guiding  hand. 


84  liJ'^A  DINGS,  liECl TA  TIONSy 

What  could  I  gatlier  from  learning  more 

Than  was  written  so  long  ago? 

I  heard  the  billows  of  science  roar 

On  the  rocks  of  truth  from  the  mystic  shore; 

And  humbly  bowing  low 

I  answered  alike  the  man  and  child ; 

"  God  makes  the  grasses  grow." 

St,  Nicholas, 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  HOPE. 

At  summer's  eve,  when  Heaven's  ethereal  bow 
Spans  with  bright  arch  the  glittering  hills  below, 
Why  to  yon  mountain  turns  the  musing  eye. 
Whose  sunbright  summit  mingles  with  ihe  sky? 
Why  do  those  cliffs  of  sliadowy  iint  appear 
More  sweet  than  all  the  landscaim  smiling  near? 
'Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view, 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue. 
Thus,  with  <lelight  we  linger,  to  survey 
The  promised  joys  of  life's  unmoasuied  way. 
Thus  from  afar  each  dim-tliscovered  scene 
More  pleasing  seems  than  all  the  past  hath  been, 
And  every  form  that  fancy  can  repair 
From  dark  oblivion,  glows  divinely  there. 


What  potent  spirit  guides  the  ri4)tured  eye 

To  pierce  the  shades  of  dim  futurity  ? 

With  thee,  sweet  Hope,  resides  tlie  heavenly  light 

That  pours  remotest  rapture  on  the  sight. 

Thine  is  the  charm  of  life's  bewildered  way 

That  calls  each  slumbering  [)assion  into  play. 

Waked  by  thy  touch,  I  see  the  sister  band, 

On  tiptoe,  watching,  start  at  thy  command. 

And  fly  where'er  tliy  mandate  bids  them  steer. 

To  pleasure's  paths,  or  glory's  bright  career. 

Angel  of  Life !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 

Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  ocean's  wildest  shore. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  85 

Lo,  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 

His  bark  careering  o'er  iinfathomed  fields. 

Now  on  Atlantic  waves,  he  rides  afar; 

Now  far  he  sweeps  Avhere  scarce  a  summer  smiles 

On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles ; 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 

Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form. 

Rocks,  waves  and  winds  thy  shattered  bark  delay, 

Thy  lieart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  hope  can  here  her  moonlit  vigils  keep, 

And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep. 

His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 

The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times, 

His  cottage  liome,  his  bark  of  slender  sail. 

His  glassy  lake  and  broomwood  blossomed  vale. 

Bush  on  his  thoughts.     He  sweeps  before   the  wind, 

Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sighed  to  leave  behind, 

Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face. 

And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace. 

Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear, 

And  clasps  with  many  a  joy  his  children  dear. 

Say,  can  tlie  world  one  generous  thought  bestow 
To  friendship  weeping  at  the  couch  of  woe? 
Ah,  no  !  but  a  brighter  soothes  the  last  adieu. 
Souls  of  impassioned  mould,  she  speaks  to  you. 
•"  Weep  not,"  she  says,  **at  Nature's  transient  pain. 
Congenial  spirits  part  to  meet  again." 
What  plaintive  sobs  thy  filial  spirit  drew  ; 
What  sorrow  choked  thy  long  and  last  adieu, 
])an<4hter  of  Conrad?     When  lie  heard  his  kiiell 
And  bade  his  country  and  his  child  farewell. 
Thrice  the  sad  father  tore  thee  from  his  heart. 
And  thrice  returned  to  bless  thee  and  to  part. 
*•' Oh,  weep  not  thus,"  he  cried,  *' Young  Eleanor, 
My  bosom  bleeds,  but  soon  shall  bleed  no  more, 
Short  shall  this  half-extinguished  spirit  burn, 
And  soon  these  limbs  to  kindred  dust  return. 
But  not,  my  child,  with  life's  precarious  fire, 
The  immortal  ties  of  nature  shall  expire. 


86  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

These  shall  resist  the  trium]^h  of  decay, 
Wiieii  time  is  o'er,  and  worlds  have  passed  away. 
Cold  in  the  dust  tliis  perished  heart  may  lie. 
But  its  immortal  life  shall  never  die. 
Farewell !  when  strangers  lift  thy  father's  bier, 
And  place  my  nameless  stone  without  a  tear, 
Who  then  will  soothe  thy  grief  when  mine  is  o'er. 
Who  will  protect  thee,  helpless  Eleanor  ? 
Ah  !  methinks  the  generous  and  the  good 
Will  woo  thee  from  the  shades  of  solitude ; 
O'er  friendless  grief  compassion  shall  awake, 
And  smile  on  innocence  for  mercy's  sake." 

Lo,  at  the  couch  where  infant  beauty  sleeps, 

Her  silent  watch  the  mournful  mother  keeps. 

And  weaves  a  song  of  melancholy  jo}-, 

"Sleep,  image  of  thy  father,  sleep, my  boy  ! 

Bright  as  his  manly  sire  the  son  shall  be 

In  form  and  soul ;  but  ah,  more  blest  than  he. 

And  say,  when  summoned  from  the  world  and  thee, 

I  lay  my  head  beneath  the  willow  tree. 

Wilt  thou,  sweet  mourner,  at  my  stone  appear 

And  soothe  my  parted  spirit  lingering  near? 

Oh  !  wilt  thou  come  at  evening  hour  to  shed,* 

The  tears  of  memor}^  o'er  my  narrow  bed?" 

So  speaks  affection  ere  the  infant  eye 

Can  look  regard  or  brighten  in  reply. 

Ah,  how  fondly  looks  admiring  Hope  the  while. 

At  every  artless  tear  and  every  smile. 

Oh,  say,  without  our  hopes,  without  our  fears, 
Without  the  home  that  plighted  love  endears. 
Without  the  smile  from  partial  beauty  won, 
Oh,  what  were  man  ? — a  world  without  a  sun. 
Till  Hymen  brought  his  love-delighted  hour, 
There  dwelt  no  joy  in  Eden's  rosy  bower. 
In  vain  the  viewless  seraf)hs  lingering  there, 
At  starry  midnight  charmed  the  silent  air. 
The  world  was  sad,  the  garden  was  a  wild, 
And  man,  the  hermit,  sighed,  \\\\  woman  smiled. 


AND  UIPERSONATIONS.  S7 

Auspicious  Hope :  in  tliy  sweet  garden  grow 
Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe. 
Unfading  hope,  when  life's  last  embers  burn, 
When  soul  to  soul  and  dust  to  dust  return, 
Heaven  to  thy  charge  resigns  the  awful  hour! 
Oh,  then  thy  kingdom  comes,  immortal  power  ! 
Bright  to  the  soul  tii}^  sei-apli  hands  convey 
The  morning  dreams  of  life's  eternal  day; 
Then,  then  the  triumph  and  the  trance  begin, 
And  all  the  Phoenix  spirit  burns  within. 
Cease  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mind, 
But  leave,  oh,  leave  the  light  of  hope  behind. 
Eternal  Hope  ;  when  3'onder  spheres  sublime 
Pealed  the  first  notes  to  sound  the  march  of  time, 
Thy  joyous  youth  began,  but  not  to  fade. 
When  all  the  sister  planets  have  decayed. 
When  wrapt  in  fire  the  realms  of  ether  glow, 
And  heaven's  last  thunder  shakes  the  Avorld  below, 
Thou,  undismayed,  shall  o'er  the  ruins  smile, 
And  light  thy  torch  on  Nature's  funeral  pile. 

OampbelL 


BOY  BRITTAN. 

Boy  Br'ttan — only  a  lad — a  fair-haired  boy. 

Sixteen — in  his  uniform  ! 

Into  the  storm — into  the  roaring  jaws  of  grim  Fort 

Henry — 
Boldly  bears    the  Federal   flotilla — into    the   battle 

storm  ! 
Boy  Brittan  is  Master's  Mate  aboard  of  the  Essex — 
There  he  stands  buoyant  and  eagle-eyed, 
I)y  the  brave  Captain's  side. 

Ready  to  do  and  dare  ?  Aye,  aye,  sir,  always  ready- 
In  his  country's  uniform  ! 
Boom  !  boom  !  and  now  the  flag-boat  sweeps 
And  now  the  Essex,  into  the  battle-storm! 


88  READINGS,  RECITATIONS. 

Boom  !  boom !  till  river,  and  fort  and  field 
Are  over-clouded  by  the  battle's  breath  ; 
Then  from  the  fort  a  gleam  and  a  crashing  gun, 
And  the  Essex  is  wrapt  and  shrouded  in  scalding 
steam  I 

But  victory,  victory! 

Unto  God  all  praise  be  ever  rendered, 

Unto  God  all  praise  and  glory  be ! 

See,  Boy  Brittan  ,  see  !     They  strike  !     Hurrah! 

The    Fort   has   surrendered  !     Shout  !    Shout  !   my 

warrior  boy  ! 
And  wave  your  cap  and  clap  your  hands  for  joy  ! 
Cheer  answer  cheer  and  bear  the  cheer  about — 
Huri'ah  !  hurrah  !  for  the  fiery  Fort  is  ours  ! 

"  Victory  !  victor}^  !  "  is  the  shout 
"  The  tl;iy  is  ours — thanks  to  the  brave  endeavor 
Of  heroes,  boy,  like  thee ! 

Glory  and  deathless  love  to  all  who  shared  with  thee  ! 
And  bravely  endured  and  dared  with  thee. 
The  day  is  ours  !     The  day  is  ours  forever  ! 
Glory  and  love  for  one  and  all — but  for  thee — 
Home  !   Home  I  a  happy  "  welcome,  welcome  home,** 
for  thee ! 

And  kisses  of  love  for  thee — 

And  a  mother's  happ}  tearsfand  a  virgin's  wreath  of 

flowers. 
But  suddenly  wrecked  and  wiapt  in  seething  steam, 
The  Essex  slowly  drifted  out  of  the  battle's  storm! 
Slowly,  slowly  down — laden  with  the  dead  and  the 

dying 
And  there,  among  them,  at  the  Captain's  feet 
The  shot-marred  form  of  a  beautiful  boy  is  lying. 
There  in  his  uniform. 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  Boy,  laurels  and  teare  for 

thee  ! 
Laurels  of  light  moist  with  the  precious  dew 


AND  IMPEIiSONATIONS.  gg 

Of  the  inmost  heart  of  the  Nation's  loving  heart, 

And  blest  by  the  balmy  breath  of  the  Beautiful  and 
the  True ! 

Moist,  moist  with  the  luminous  breath  of  the  sing- 
ing spheres 

And  the  Nation's  starry  tears ; 

And  tremble-touched  by  the  pulse-like  gush  and 
start 

Of  the  universal  music  of  the  heart, 

And  all  deep  sympathy  ! 

Laurels  and  tears  for  thee,  Boy 

Laurels  of  Light  and  tears  of  Love  forevermore  for 

thee 
And  the  mantle  of  Immortality ! 
And  the  flowers  of  Love  and  immortal  Youth, 
And  the  tender  heart-tokens  of  all  truth — 
And  the  everlasting  victory  ! 
And  the  breath  and  bliss  of  Liberty, 
And  the  loving  kiss  of  Liberty  ; 
And  the  infinite  love-span  of  the  skies, 
That  cover  the  Valleys  of  Paradise. 

For  thee  !  and  all  the  braves  who  rest  with  thee ! 

And  for  one  and  all  who  died  with  thee. 

And  now  lie  side  b}^  side  with  thee  ! 

And  for  every  one  who  lives  and  dies 

On  the  solid  land  or  the  heaving  seas. 

Dear  warrior-boy — like  thee. 

O,  the  victory — the  victory  belongs  to  thee ! 

God  ever  keeps  th«  biightest  crown  for  such  as  thee. 

He  gives  it  now  to  :hee  ! 

O  young  and  brave  and  early  and  thrice  blest — 

Thrice,  thrice,  thrice  blest! 

Thy  country  turns  once  more   to  kiss  thy  youthful 

brow. 
And  takes  thee  gently — gently  to  her  breast. 
And  wliispers  lovingly,  ''God  bless  thee — 
Bless  thee  now — my  darling,  thou  shalt  rest." 

ForceTjthe    Willson, 


90  READINGS,  liKClTATIOyS, 

THE  .FALL   OF   JERUSALEM. 

(Prize  Declamation^  May,  18S9  ;  N.  Mo.  State  Noniml.) 

The  fall  of  our  illustrious  and  iinliappy  city  was 
supernatural.  Tlie  destruction  of  the  conquered 
was  against  the  first  principles  of  Roman  polity  ; 
and  to  the  last  hour  of  our  national  existence,  Rome 
held  out  offers  of  peace,  and  lamented  our  frantic 
determination  to  be  undone.  But  the  decree  was 
gone  forth  from  a  mightier  throne.  During  tlie 
latter  days  of  the  siege,  a  hostility  to  which  that  of 
man  was  as  a  grain  of  sand  to  the  tempest  that 
drives  it  on — overpowered  our  strength  and  senses. 
P'earful  shapes  and  voices  in  the  air  ;  visions  startling 
us  from  our  short  and  troubled  sleep;  lunacy  in  its 
most  hideous  forms;  sudden  death  in  the  midst  of 
vigor ;  the  fury  of  the  elements  let  loose  upon  our 
unsheltered  heads  ;  we  had  every  terror  and  evil  that 
could  beset  human  nature,  but  pestilence  ;  the  most 
probable  of  all  in  a  city  crowded  with  the  famishing, 
the  diseased,  the  wounded,  and  the  dead.  Yet, 
though  the  streetfi  were  covered  with  the  unburied ; 
though  every  "well  and  trench  was  streaming  with 
gore ;  though  six  hundred  thousand  corpses  lay  flung 
over  the  rampart,  naked  to  the  sun — pestilence  came 
not ;  if  it  had  come,  the  enemy  would  have  been 
sc.ired  away.  But  the  "abomination  of  desolation," 
the  pagan  standard,  was  fixed ;  where  it  was  to  re- 
main until  the  plough  passed  over  the  ruins  of 
Jerusalem  I 

On  one  night,  that  fatal  night,  no  man  laid  his 
head  upon  his  pillow.  Heaven  and  earth  were  in 
conflict.  Meteors  burned  above  us;  the  ground 
shook  under  our  feet ;  the  volcano  blazed  ;  the  wind 
burst  forth  in  irresistible  blasts,  and  swept  the  living 
and  the  dead  in  whirlwinds,  far  into  the  desert.  We 
heard  the  bellowing  of  the  distant  Mediterranean, 
as  if  its  waters  were  at  our  side,  swelled  by  a  new 


AND  IMFEliSOXATlONS.  91 

deluf,'e.  The  lakes  and  rivers  roared,  and  inun- 
dated tlie  land.  The  fiery  sword  sliot  out  tenfold 
fire.  Showers  of  blood  fell.  Thunder  pealed  from 
every  quarter  of  tlie  heaven.  Lightning  in  immense 
sheets,  withering  eye  and  soul,  burned  from  the 
zenith  to  the  ground,  and  marked  its  track  by  forests 
on  fiame,  and  the  shattered  summits  of  the  liills. 
Defence  was  now  unthought  of;  for  the  mortal 
hostility  had  passed  from  the  mind.  Our  hearts 
<iuaked  for  fear;  but  it  was  to  see  the  powers  of 
Heaven  shaken.  All  cast  away  the  shield  and  the 
spear,  and  crouched  before  the  descending  judgment. 
We  were  conscience-smitten.  Our  cries  of  remorse, 
anguish,  and  horror,  were  heard  through  the  uproar 
of  the  storm.  We  howled  to  the  caverns  to  hide  us  ; 
we  plunged  into  the  sepulchres  to  escape  the  wrath 
that  consumed  the  living ;  we  would  have  buried 
ourselves  under  the  mountains !  I  knew  the  cause, 
the  unspeakable  cause  ;  and  knew  that  the  last  hour 
of  crime  was  at  hand.  A  few  fugitives,  astonished 
to  see  one  man  among  them  not  sunk  into  the  lowest 
feebleness  of  fear,  came  round  me,  and  besought  me 
to  lead  tliem  to  some  place  of  safety,  if  such  were 
now  to  be  found  on  the  earth.  T  told  them  openly 
that  they  were  to  die,  and  counselled  them  to  die  in 
the  hallowed  ground  of  the  temple.  They  followed 
me,  through  streets  encumbered  with  every  shape  of 
human  suffering,  to  the  foot  of  Mount  Moriah.  But, 
beyond  that,  we  found  advance  impossible.  Piles  of 
clouds,  whose  darkness  was  palpable,  even  in  the 
midniglit  in  which  we  stood,  covered  the  holy  liill. 
Still,  not  to  be  daunted  by  anything  that  man  could 
overcome,  I  cheered  my  disheartened  band,  Jind 
attempted  to  lead  tlie  way  up  the  ascent.  But  I 
had  scarcely  entered  the  cloud,  when  I  was  swept 
downward  by  a  gust  that  tore  the  rocks  in  a  flinty 
shower  around  me. 

Now  came  the  last  and  most  wondrous  sign  that 
marked  the  fate  of  Israel.  While  I  lay  helpless,  I 
heard  the  whirlwind  roar  through  the  cloudy  hill; 


92  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

the  vapors  began  to  revolve,  and  tlie  clouds  rose, 
and  rapidly  sliaped  themselves  into  the  forms  of 
battlemeiils  and  towers.  The  sound  of  voices  was 
heard  w  itliiu,  low  and  distani.  yet  stiaiigely  sweet. 
The  lustre  briglitened,  and  ine  aiiy  building  rose, 
tower  on  tower,  and  batilenieni  on  battlement. 

In  awe  that  held  us  nuite,  we  knelt  and  gazed 
upon  this  more  than  mortal  arcliitecture,  which  con- 
tinued rising  and  spreading,  and  glowing  with  serener 
light,  still  soft  and  silvery,  yet  to. which  the  broadest 
moonbeam  was  dim.  At  last,  it  stood  forth  to  earth 
and  heaven  the  coh)ssal  image  of  the  first  temple, 
the  building  raised  by  the  wisest  man,  and  con- 
secrated by  the  visible  glory.  All  Jerusalem  saw 
the  image ;  and  the  shout  that  in  the  midst  of  their 
despair  ascended  from  its  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands,  told  what  proud  remembrances  were  there. 
But  a  hymn  was  heard  that  might  have  hushed  the 
Avorld.  Never  fell  on  my  ear,  never  on  the  human 
sense,  a  sound  so  majestic,  yet  so  subduing;  so  full 
of  melancholy,  yet  of  grandeur.  The  cloudy  portal 
opened,  and  from  it  marched  a  host,  such  as  man 
jiever  had  seen  before,  such  as  man  never  shall  see 
but  once  again ;  the  guardian  angels  of  the  city  of 
David — they  came  fortli  glorious,  but  with  woe  in 
all  their  steps ;  the  stars  upon  their  helmets  dim ; 
their  robes  stained  ;  tears  flowing  down  their  celestial 
beauty.  ''  Let  us  go  hence,"  was  their  song  of  sor- 
row ;  "Let  us  go  hence,"  was  answered  by  the  sad 
echoes  of  the  mountains.  *'  Let  us  go  hence,"  swelled 
upon  the  night,  to  the  farthest  limits  of  the  land. 
The  procession  lingered  long  on  the  summit  of  the 
hill.  Then  the  thunder  pealed;  and  they  rose  at 
the  command,  diffusing  waves  of  light  over  the  ex- 
panse of  heaven.  Their  chorus  Avas  lieard,  still 
magnificent  and  melancholy,  when  their  splendor 
was  diminished  to  the  brightness  of  a  star.  The 
thunder  roared  again ;  the  cloudy  temple  was  scat- 
tered on  the  winds ;  and  darkness,  the  omen  of  her 
grave,  settled  upon  Jerusalem  ! — Croly, 


A^D  JM^J£li^so^■ATIO^^s.  93 


THE  HARVEST. 

In  a  valley  wlieie  the  sunbeams 
Like  our  lather's  blessings  fall 
Where  repose  the  softest  shadows 
And  the  dove  and  cuckoo  call, 
Where  the  hay  o'er  meadows  scattered, 
Casts  its  fragrance  to  the  air, 
Dwells  in  j^eace  a  band  of  reapers. 
Winnowing  joy  from  sheaves  of  care. 

Nature  now  is  clad  in  verdure, 
Filled  her  lap  with  fragrant  flowers, 
And  the  sweet-voiced  birds  of  summer 
Warble  in  their  vine-clad  bowers. 
Insects  flitting,  grasses  waving. 
In  and  out  the  brooklet  flows 
Bearing  on  its  wayward  journey 
Sweetest  tidings  of  repose. 

Onward  come  the  thrifty  gleaners 

At  the  glimmer  of  the  dawn. 

In  their  beating  hearts  contentment — 

On  their  lips  the  hymn  of  morn. 

Awake  !  awake  !  the  rosy  light 

In  dawning  splendor  beams: 

The  sun  arises  from  his  sleep. 

And  earth  in  beauty  gleams. 

Bear  they  in  their  hands  the  sickle, 
To  the  grain  a  dreaded  foe  ; 
By  its  strength  and  man's  united 
Sheaf  on  sheaf  will  soon  lie  low. 
AH  the  glory  of  the  harvest 
Shines  upon  the  valley  plain. 
And  the  laughing  sunbeams  hover 
Over  fields  of  golden  grain. 


94  BEADING^,  UECITATIONSi 

Voice  of  gleaners,  chiah  of  sickles. 
Songs  that  float  from  field  and  holm. 
Are  the  tunes  of  labor's  antlieni 
Floating  through  tlie  azure  dome. 
One  by  one  the  sheaves  are  falling, 
One  by  one  are  cut  and  bound, 
Like  brave  soldiers  in  the  conflict 
Fall  to  earth  witli  glory  crowned. 

In  far  distant  homes  fond  mothers 
Weep  in  silence  o'er  their  fears  ; 
O'er  the  sheaves  the  clouds  keep  vigil^ 
Mother  Earth  sheds  dewy  tears. 
In  the  western  sky  low  sinking 
Sunbeams  kiss  the  radiant  stream  ; 
Day,  that  liglit  would  lull  to  slumber, 
Dietli  with  the  fading  orleam. 

To  rest !  to  rest !  the  reapers  sing. 

The  pale-faced  moon  ascends  the  height; 

O'er  earth  the  misty  twilight  falls, 

A  sliadow  bridge  'twixt  day  and  night. 

Distant  hills  re})eat  the  anthem 

Echoes  fainter,  fainter  grow, 

As  the  far  bell's  distant  tinklings 

Still  resound  in  music  low. 

So  life's  morning  dawns  in  splendor 
On  our  life-work's  glorious  field ; 
Hope  and  love  and  truth  and  beauty 
Here  a  bounteous  harvest  yield. 
Youth,  so  light  of  heart  and  footsteps, 
Cometli  singing  glad  and  free, 
Age,  fast  fleeting,  crowned  with  silver, 
Totters  slowly  o'er  the  lea. 

Gleaners  golden  sheaves  are  binding. 
Soon  the  harvest  will  be  o'er ; 
Hearts  o'er  shattered  hopes  be  grieving. 
Idols — dust  forever  more  ! 


AND  IMl'KRSONATIONS.  95 

Work!     ihe  niglitfull  diawelh  nearer, 
Eartlily  })leasures  fade  away, 
Death's  dark  sleep  is  fast  approaching, 
Ushering  in  eternal  day. 

Brothers,  moments  swift  receding, 
Bid  us  reap  with  steady  hand, 
Soon  we'll  turn  our  footsteps  homeward, 
To  the  heavenly  liarvest  land. 
Shining  sheaves  of  love  and  labor 
To  the  throne  above  we'll  bear, 
And  our  Father,  all  protecting, 
Waits  to  greet  his  children  there. 

Alice  La  Due, 


THE    SONG   OF   STEAM. 

{Suitable  for  Concert  Recitation.) 

Come !     Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein  ; 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands, 

As  a  tempest  scorns  a  chain  ; 
How  I  laughed  as  I  lay  concealed  from  sight 

For  many  a  countless  hour. 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  might. 

And  the  pride  of  human  power. 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  upon  the  sea. 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  waiting  the  wayward  breeze, 
I  could  not  but  think  how  the  world  would  feel 

As  these  were  outstripped  afar. 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing  keel, 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car. 

Ha  !  ha !  ha  !     They  found  me  at  last ! 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length. 
And  I  rushed  to  my  throne  with  thunder  blast. 

And  I  laughed  in  my  iron  strength. 


96  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Oh,  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change 

On  the  eaitli  and  ocean  wide, 
Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 

Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  giant  streams, 

Or  the  mountain's  steep  decline, 
Time— space — have  yielded  lo  my  power; — 

'i1ie  world  !  the  worhl  is  mine ! 
The  ocean  pales,  where'er  I  sweep, 

To  hear  m^^  strength  rejoice. 
Even  Avinds  and  lightnings  are  left  behind, 

They  tremble  at  my  voice. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine, 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play. 
Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline. 

Or  the  dawn  of  the  glorious  day. 
I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 

From  the  hidden  caves  below. 
And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 
With  a  crystal  gush  o'erllow. 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade ; 
I  hammer  the  ore,  \  1    turn  the  wlieel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made ; 
I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint; 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave ; 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print 

On  ever}'  Saturday  eve. 

I've  no  muscle  'to  weary,  no  brain  to  decay. 

No  bones  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf. 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  go  and  play, 

While  I  manage  the  world  myself. 
Then  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

\^Q  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein, 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands. 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 

Cutler, 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS,  97 


THE  BRIDE  OF  THE  GREEK  ISLE. 

Come  from  the  woods  with  the  citron-flowers, 

Come  with  your  lyres  for  the  festal  hours, 

Maids  of  bright  Scio !     They  came,  and  the  breeze 

Bore  their  sweet  songs  o'er  the  Grecian  seas  ; — 

They  came,  and  Eudora  stood  robed  and  crowned, 

The  bride  of  the  morn. 

Jewels  flashed  out  from  her  braided  hair. 

And  pearls  on  her  quivering  bosom  shone. 

She  looked  on  the  vine  at  lier  fatlier's  door. 

Like  one  tliat  is  leaving  his  native  shore  ; 

She  turned — and  her  motlier's  gaze  brought  back 

Each  line  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 

Oh!  husli  the  sojig,  and  let  her  tears 

Flow  to  tlie  dreatn  of  her  early  years ! 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's  hall; 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new, 

She  parts  from  love  that  hath  still  been  true ; 

She  wept — yet  laid  her  hand  the  while, 

In  his,  that  waited  her  dawning  smile. 

"  Why  do  I  weep  ? — to  leave  the  vine 
Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend. 
A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear 
Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep. 
I  leave  my  sunny  childiiood  here  ; 
Oh,  therefore  let  me  weep. 
I  leave  thee,  father?  mother,  I  leave  thee,  too  ! 
Oil  thy  breast  pouring  out  joy  and  woe 
I  have  found  that  holy  ]>lace  of  I'cst 
Still  cliJingeless, —  yet  I  1:0  I 
I^ii'S  that  have  lulled  me  with  your  strain, 
Eyes  that  have  watched  my  sleep! 
Will  eailh  give  love  like  yours  again? 
Sweet  mother!  let  me  weep!  " 
7 


98  HEADINGS,  UECITATIONS, 

But  a  changeful  thing  is  the  human  lieart, 

It  is  well !  tiie  cloud  on  her  soul  that  lay, 

Hath  melted  in  glittering  drops  awa}'. 

Slie  turns  to  her  lov(U',  lanthis  the  brave. 

Mother  !  On  earth  it  must  still  be  so, 

Thou  rearest  the  lovely  to  see  them  go ! 

Still  and  sweet  was  the  home  that  stood 

In  the  llowering  depths  of  a  Grecian  wood. 

And  thither  lanthis  had  brought  his  bride, 

They  lifted  the  veil  from  Eudora's  face, 

It  smiled  out  softly  iu  pensive  grace. 

Bring  wine,  bring  odors  !  the  board  is  spread — 

Bring  roses  !  a  chaplet  for  every  head  ! 

The  wine-cups  foamed,  and  the  rose  was  showered 

On  tlie  young  and  fair  from  the  world  embowered. 

Hush  !  be  still  I — Was  that  no  more 

Than  the  murmur  from  tlie  shore? 

Silence  I — Did  thick  rain  diops  beat 

On  the  grass  like  trampling  feet  ? 

Fling  down  the  goblet!  draw  the  sword  ! 

Tiie  groves  are  filled  with  a  pirate  horde  ! 

Through  the  dim  olives  their  sabers  shine 

Now  must  the  red  blood  stream  for  wine  ! 

The  youth  fr<fm  thehanqet  to  battle  sprang, 

The  woods  with  the  shriek  ot  the  maidens  rang. 

Kudora,  Eudora!  thou  dost  not  fly  I 

She  saw  but  lanthis  before  her  lie, 

With  the  blood  from  liis  breast  in  a  gushing  flow, 

And  a  gjitliering  film  in  Ids  lifted  eye, 

"I'hat  sought  his  young  bride's  mournfully. 

She  knelt  down  lujside  him,  and  hiuanus  she  wound 

Lik(^  tendrils  liis  drooping  neck  arcnmdj 

But  they  tore  her  hence  in  her  wihl  despair, 

Those  fierce  sea  rovers.     Thev  left  him  there. 

So  closed  the  trium[)h  of  youth  and  love  ! 

(iloomy  1.1  V  the  shore  that  night,  gloomy  lay  the  shore 

.  and  still. 
O'ci'  the  wave   no  gay  guitar  sent  its  floating  music 
far. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS^.  99 

But  a  voice  of  woe  from  the  sea-beat  rocks  arose, 
As  Eudora's  mother  stood  gazing  o'er  the  Egean  flood, 
With  fixed  and  straining  eye.     Oh,  was  the  spoiler's 

vessel  nigh  ? 
Yes,  there  becalmed  in  night  so  dark,  brooding  it 

frowned,  that  evil  bark. 
And  the  heavy  sound  of  its  flapping  sail,  idly,  vainly 

wooed  the  gale. 
Hushed  was  all  else — had  ocean's  bi'cast  rocked  e'en 

Eudora  to  rest  ? 
To  rest  ?  Nay  not  rest !  What  piercing  cry 
Bursts  from  the  lieart  of  the  ship  on  high? 
What  lio^ht  throuf^h  the  lieavens  shoots  from  the  deck 

up? 
'Tis  fire  !  there  are  wild  forms  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
There  are  shout  and  signal-gun  and  call, 
And  dashing  of  water — but  fruitless  all ! 
Man  may  not  fetter,  nor  ocean  tame 
The  might  and  wrath  of  the  rushing  flame  ! 
It  liath  twined  tlie  mast,  it  hath  touched  the  sails, 
It  hath  taken  the  flag's  high  place  in  air. 

The  swimmers  are  plunging  from  stern  and  prow, 

Eudora,  Eudora!  where,  where  art  thou? 

Mother  !  who  stands  on  the  deck  alone  ! 

The  child  of  thy  bosom  !  and  lo  I  a  brand 

Blazing  up  high  in  her  lifted  hand, 

Her  veil  flung  back  and  her  free  dark  hair. 

Swayed  by  the  flames  as  they  rock  and  flare. 

And  her  fragile  form  to  its  loftiest  height 

Dilated  as  if  by  the  spirit's  might, 

And  her  eye  with  an  eagle  gladness  fraught, 

Oh  !  could  this  work  be  of  woman  wrought? 

Yes  !     'Twas  her  deed  !     By  that  haughty  smile 

Ye  know  'twas  hers !     She  hath  kindled  lier  funeral 

pile, 
That  never  might  shame  on  that  bright  liead  be  I 
Her  blood  was  the  Greek's !     It  hath  made  her  free  ! 
Proudly  she  stands  like  an  Indian  bride 
On  the  pyre  with  the  holy  dead  beside. 


100  Heading. s,  ukcitations, 

One  moment  more  and  her  hands  are  clasped. 
Fallen  is  the  torcli  they  had  wildly  grasped, 
And  her  sinking  knee  unto  Heaven  is  bowed. 
And  her  last  look  raised  through  the  smoke's  dim 

shroud, 
And  her  lips  as  in  prayer  for  her  pardon  move, — 
Now  th«  night  gathers  o'er  youth  and  love. 

Mrs.  ffemans. 


GATES. 

God  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  gates; 

Front  gates  I  mean. 

The  expression  is  not  mine, 

Old  Sanclio  used  it  once  upon  a  time. 

And  what  the  shrewd  and  honest  fellow  wrote, 

I,  with  a  poet's  license,  sure  can  quote. 

Now  who  invented  gates  is  quite  a  mystery. 

In  vain  we  ask  the  doctors,  old  and  wise, 

They  slowly  shake  their  heads  and  wink  their  eyes, 

Answer  our  question  witli  a  solemn  groan 

Advisinpf  us  to  let  such  thinors  alone. 

In  vain  we  search  the  volumed  leaves  of  history — 

Thus  baffled  we  put  on  our  thinking  cap. 

When,  lo ! — it  must  have  been  some  Yankee  chap, 

Who  cried./''^^^  worse  than  going  to  the  wars, 

To  clamber  fences  and  to  crawl  through  bars ! 

Mankind  'tis  certain  wants  one  comfort  more. 

That  want  I  will  supf)ly.     The  need  is  great." 

He  seized  his  jack-knife,  and  behold  a  gate  ! 

How  useful  is  the  gate  in  youthful  years, 
When  time  has  laid  up(Ui  the  brow  no  care 
Noi'  traced  its  furrowed  lines  of  soriow  there. 
How  oft  we  sought  the  swinging  old  front  gate, 
That  scarcely  bent  beneath  our  childish  weight, 
And  there  forgot  our  little  griefs  and  fears. 
Oh  I  blessed  golden  years  ! 


AND  IMPEUSOyATIOyS.  101 

When  we  were  happier  on  the  creaking  gate, 

Than  the  prond  monarch  in  his  car  of  state. 

And  through  tliat  gate,  one  glorious  summer  day 

Our  brother  walked,  in  all  a  soldier's  pride, 

We,  wee[)ing,  clustered  round  his  manly  side, 

Then  he  was  gone,  and  we  could  only  pray. 

There  w^as  a  battle  down  in  T.eilii^|se9  ^.         .''*.  •'' 

And  gloriously  the  banner  of  thV f fe'e  '   * 

Was  carried  by  brave  men  wltli.  dauiiJJ'o^S' birettst  j  ^.\ 

Till  where  the  fight  was  likfe'a'ragin'g'hell,'  '• '  ''••'" 

In  the  front  ranks  of  all  our  brother  fell. 

And  we — well — you  know  the  rest, 

And  through  that  same  front  gate,  his  form  they 

bore. 
Our  own  dear  brother  had  come  back  once  more. 

But  the  chief  time  when  front  gates  are  applied 

Is  at  the  witching  hour  of  eventide, 

For  the  bold  lover  and  his  lady  fair 

To  meet — and — talk  about  the  weather  there. 

This  subject  through,  another  course  he  claims, 

Namely — to  praise  and  call  lier  pretty  names. 

Thus  is  it,  ere  the  prosy  lamps  are  lighted 

Provided  there  are  lamps  along  the  street, 

If  not,  why  never  mind  it,  sweet. 

Their  vows  are  pledged,  and  mutual  love  is  plighted, 

And  secrets  told,  not  meant  for  common  ears. 

No  thought  of  how  much  tlie  old  gate  hears  ; 

Old  folks  may  laugh,  and  younger  ones  deride  it — 

What's  that  to  me?    Of  course  I've  never  tried  it. 

Of   course  when   lamps  went  out   aiid  hours  grew 

late, 
I  never  leaned  across  the  old  front  gate. 
Dear  old  front  gate,  who  has  not  known  thee  well ! 
Strong  man  and  maiden,  old  and  young  ! 
Oil,  tliat  some  power  conld  now  unseal  thy  tongue; 
What  tales  of  joy  or  sad.less  couldst  thou  tell; 
How  many  answeis  have  vanquished  hate 
Across  thy  time-worn  bars,  dear  old  front  gate — 
Peace — fare  thee  v/ell ! 


102  HEADINGS,  HECITATIONS, 

There  is  another  gate  we  must  all  pass  through, 
Wheu  life  is  over  and  our  time  has  fled, 
When  we  lie  sleeping  with  the  silent  dead ; 
When  will  it  come,  friend,  for  me  and  you  ? 
Yes,  there's  another  gate — all  pearls  and  gold, 
And  they  that  enter  lay  all  burdens  down, 
They  see  a  city  glorious  to  behold, 
W-her^i  every  ii^-bAt-ant  wears  a  crown  of  gold, 
And  by  tiie  Kiilg's  own  hand  that  crown  is  given, 
'/Qh^ '^'cand  last  gate  of  all — the  gate  of  heaven. 

Groodno2v. 


THE  RACE  PROBLEM. 

The  stoutest  apostle  of  the  church,  they  say,  is  the 
missionary,  and  the  missionar}^  wherever  he  unfurls 
his  flag,  will  never  find  himself  in  deeper  need  of 
unction  and  address  than  I,  bidden  to-night  to  plant 
the  standard  of  a  Southern  Democrat  in  Boston's  ban- 
quet hall,  and  to  discuss  the  problem  of  the  races  in 
the  home  of  Phillips  and  of  Sumner.  But,  Mr.  Presi- 
dent, if  a  purpose  to  speak  in  perfect  frankness  and 
sincerity  ;  if  earnest  understanding  of  the  vast  inter- 
ests involved;  if  a  consecrating  sense  of  what  dis- 
aster must  follow  misunderstanding  and  estrange- 
ment; if  these  may  be  counted  to  steady  undisci- 
plined speech  and  to  strengthen  an  untried  arm — then, 
sir,  I  shall  find  the  courage  to  proceed. 

Far  to  the  south,  Mr.  President,  lies  the  fairest  and 
richest  domain  of  this  earth.  It  is  the  home  of  a 
brave  and  hospitable  people.  A  perfect  climate  above 
a  fertile  soil,  yields  to  the  husbandman  every  product 
of  the  temperate  zone.  There,  by  night  the  cotton 
whitens  beneath  the  stars,  and  by  day  the  wheat  locks 
the  sunshine  in  its  bearded  sheaf.  That,  sir,  is  the 
picture  and  ^jromise  of  my  home.  Hear  one  thing 
more.  My  peo[>le,  your  brothers  in  the  South — 
brothers  in  blood,  in  destiny,  in  all  that  is  best  in  our 
past  and  future — are  so  beset  with  this  problem  that 


AND  IMPKIiSONATIONS.  103 

their  very  existence  depends  on  its  right  solution. 
Nor  are  they  wholly  to  blame  for  its  presence.  The 
slaveships  of  the  Republic  sailed  from  your  ports — 
the  slaves  worked  in  our  fields.  You  will  not  defend 
the  traffic,  nor  I  the  institution.  But  I  do  here 
declare  that  in  its  wise  and  humane  administra- 
tion, in  lifting  tlie  slave  to  the  heights  of  which  he 
had  not  dreamed  in  his  savage  home,  and  giving 
him  a  happiness  he  has  not  yet  found  in  freedom — 
our  fathers  left  their  sons  a  saving  and  excellent 
heritage.  In  the  storm  of  war,  this  institution  was 
lost.  I  thank  God  as  heartily  as  you  do,  that  human 
slavery  is  gone  forever  from  American  soil.  But  the 
free(l.man  remain^,  and  with  him  a  problem  without 
precedent  or  pCti.ciiel.  Note  its  appalling  conditions. 
Two  utterly  dissimilar  races  on  the  same  soil — with 
equal  political  and  civil  rights — almost  equal  in  num- 
bers, but  terribly  unequal  in  intelligence  and  responsi- 
bility— each  pledged  against  fusion — oiie  for  a  cen- 
tury in  servitude  to  the  other,  and  freed  at  last  by  a 
desolating  war — the  experiment  sought  by  neither 
but  approached  by  both  with  doubt — these  are  the 
conditions.  Under  these,  adverse  at  every  point,  we 
are  required  to  carry  these  two  races  in  peace  and 
honor  to  the  end.  Never,  sir,  has  snnh  m  t'-jxk  been 
given  to  mortal  stewardship  Never  before  in  this  Ee- 
public  has  the  white  race  divided  on  tlie  rights  of  an 
alien  race.  The  red  man  was  cut  down  as  a  weed, 
because  he  hindered  the  way  of  the  American  citizen. 
The  yellow  man  was  shut  out  of  this  Republic  because 
lie  was  an  alien  and  an  inferior.  The  red  man  was 
owner  of  the  land — the  3*ellow  man  highly  civilized 
and  assimilable — but  they  hindered  botli  sections  and 
are  gone.  But  the  black  man,  clothed  with  every 
[)rivilege  of  government,  affecting  but  one  section,  is 
pinned  to  the  soil,  and  my  people  commanded  to  make 
good  at  any  hazard,  and  at  any  cost,  his  full  and  equal 
heirship  of  American  privilege  and  prosperity.  It 
matters  not  that  every  other  race  has  been  routed  or 
'jxcluded,  without  rhyme  or  reason.     It  matters  not 


104  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

that  wherever  the  whites  and  bhicks  have  touched, 
in  any  era  or  in  any  clime,  tliere  has  been  irreconcilable 
violence.  It  matters  not  that  no  two  races  however 
similar  have  ever  lived  anywhere  at  any  time,  on  the 
same  soil  with  equal  rights,  in  peace,  hi  spite  of 
these  things  we  are  commanded  to  make  good  this 
change  of  American  policy  which  has  not,  perhaps, 
changed  American  prejudice — to  make  certain  here 
wliat  has  elsewhere  been  impossible  between  whites 
and  blacks — and  to  reverse,  under  the  very  worst 
conditions,  the  universal  verdict  of  racial  histoiy. 

We  give  the  world  this  year  a  crop  of  7,600,000 
bales  of  cotton,  worth  $450,000,000,  and  its  cash 
equivalent  in  grain,  grasses,  and  fruit.  This  enormous 
crop  could  not  have  come  from  the  hands  of  sullen 
and  discontented  labor.  It  comes  from  the  peaceful 
fields  in  which  laughter  and  gossip  rise  above  the  hum 
of  industry,  and  contentment  runs  with  the  singing 
plow.  It  is  claimed  that  this  ignorant  labor  is  de- 
frauded of  its  just  hire.  I  present  the  tax  books  of 
Georgia,  which  show  that  the  negro,  twenty-five  years 
ago  a  slave,  has  in  Georgia  alone  810,000.000  of  assessed 
propert}',  worth  twice  that  much.  Does  not  that 
record  honor  him  and  vindicate  his  neighbors?  What 
people,  penniless,  illiterate,  has  done  so  well?  For 
every  Afro-American  agitator,  stirring  the  strife  in 
which  alnne  he  prospers,  I  can  show  you  a  hundred 
negroes,  happy  in  their  cabin  homes,  tilling  their  own 
land  by  day,  and  at  night  taking  from  the  lips  of  their 
children  the  helpfnl  message  (heir  State  sends  them 
fmm  the  scliool-liouse  door.  And  tlie  school-house  it- 
self bears  testimon}'.  \\\  Georgia  we  added  last  year 
}5)2oO,000  to  the  school  fund,  making  a  total  of  more 
tlian  >t?^l, 000,000 — and  this  in  the  face  of  prejudice  not 
vet  conquered — of  the  fact  that  the  whites  are  assessed 
'for  .^308,000,000,  tlie  blacks  for  $10,000,000,  and  yet 
49  per  cent  of  the  beneficiaries  are  black  children 
— inid  ill  the  doubt  of  many  wise  men  if  education 
1    Ips  or  can  help  our  problem.     Charleston,  with  her 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  105 

taxable  values  cut  half  in  two  since  1860,  pays  more 
in  proportion  for  public  schools  than  Boston.  Al- 
though it  is  easier  to  give  much  out  of  much,  than 
little  out  of  little,  the  South,  witli  one-seventh  of 
the  taxable  property  of  the  country,  with  relatively 
larger  debt,  having  received  only  one-tenth  us  much 
of  public  lands,  and  having  back  of  its  tax  books  none 
of  the  half  billion  of  bonds  that  enrich  the  North,  yet 
gives  nearly  one-sixth  of  the  public-school  fund.  The 
negro  vote  can  never  control  in  the  South,  and  it 
would  be  well  if  partisans  at  the  North  would  under- 
stand tliis.  I  have  seen  the  white  people  of  a  State 
set  about  by  black  hosts  until  their  fate  seemed  sealed. 
But,  sir,  some  brave  man,  banding  them  together, 
would  rise,  as  Elisha  rose  in  beleaguered  Samaria,  and, 
touching  their  eyes  with  faith,  bid  them  look  abroad 
to  see  the  very  air  "  filled  with  the  chariots  of  Israel 
and  the  horsemen  thereof."  If  there  is  any  human 
force  that  cannot  be  withstood,  it  is  the  power  of  the 
banded  intelligence  and  responsibility  of  a  free  com- 
munity. Against  it,  numbers  and  corruption  cannot 
prevail.  It  cannot  be  forbidden  in  the  law  or  divorced 
in  force.  It  is  the  unalterable  right  of  ever}-  free  com- 
munity— the  just  and  righteous  safeguard  against  an 
ignorant  or  corrupt  suffrage.  It  is  on  this,  sir,  that 
we  rely  in  the  South.  Not  the  cowardly  menace  of 
mask  or  shotgun ;  but  the  peaceful  majesty  of  intel- 
ligence and  responsibility,  massed  and  unified  for  the 
protection  of  its  homes  and  the  preservation  of  its 
liberty.  That,  sir,  is  our  reliance  and  our  hope,  and 
against  it  all  the  powers  of  earth  shall  not  prevail. 
You  may  pass  force  bills,  but  they  will  not  avail. 
You  may  surrender  your  own  liabilities  to  federal 
election  law — this  old  State  which  holds  in  its  charter 
the  boast  that  it  "is  a  free  and  independent  common- 
wealth"— it  may  deliver  its  election  machinery  into 
the  hands  of  the  government  it  helped  to  create — but 
never,  sir,  will  a  single  state  of  this  Union,  North  or 
South,  be  delivered  again  to  contr-ol  of  an  ignorant 
and  inferior  race.     We  wrested  our  State  government 


10(5  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

from  negro  supremacy  when  the  Federal  drum  beat 
rolled  closer  to  the  ballot-box  and  Federal  bayonets 
hedged  it  deeper  about  than  will  ever  again  be  permii- 
ted  in  this  free  government.  But,  sir,  though  the  can- 
non of  this  Republic  thundered  in  every  voting  district 
of  tlie  South,  we  still  sliould  find  in  the  mercy  of  God 
the  means  and  the  courage  to  prevent  its  reestablish- 
ment ! — Henry   W,    Grady. 


MORMON   WIFE    NUMBER   ONE,    ON   THE 
ARRIVAL  OP  NUMBER  TWENTY-ONE. 

Our  husband  has  brought  home  another  wife, 

'Twas  lonesome  with  twenty  round. 
And  so  the  church  sealed  in  number  twenty-one, 

And  now  a  new  favorite  is  found. 
She'll  sit  at  the  head  of  the  table  too, 

Be  foremost  in  everything. 
Her  whims  will  be  law,  and  she'll  be  the  first 

To  have  a  new  bonnet  next  spring. 

I  married  Joe  Smith  thirty  years  ago, 

My  Mormon  belief  was  firm ; 
But  when  he  brought  home  a  second  wife  more, 

My  conscience  began  to  squirm. 
For  while  the  Smith  family  were  always  famed 

For  being  of  numerous  breed, 
The  thought  of  him  having  a  single  wife  more. 

Was  far  from  my  Mormon  creed. 

I  thought,  when  we  married,  us  two  was  one, 

One  flesh  should  the  twain  ever  be  ; 
Us  wives  now  make  twont3'-odd  kinds  of  flesh. 

As  bad  as  town  liash  can  be. 
Instead  of  my  being  a  better  half 

And  queen  of  his  home  and  heart. 
He  has  brought  me  to  one  twenty-first  of  one-half. 

Or  more  than  a  forty-twoth  part. 


AND  IMPEUSONATIONS.  107 

I,  once  a  whole  woman,  am  dwindled  down 

To  the  forty-twoth  part  of  a  man. 
And  what  will  I  do,  if  he  still  goes  on 

Pursuing  his  Mormon  plan  ? 
My  children's   mixed   up    with   his   other   wives' 
children, 

Till  now  when  a  young  one  falls. 
We  twenty-odd  mothers  of  ninety-three  kids, 

Can't  tell  whose  it  is  that  squalJs. 

He's  married  the  sisters  of  wives  he's  got, 

Till  children  can't  tell 
If  ma  is  mother  or  auntie,  or  if  tlieir  pa 

Is  fatlier  or  uncle-in-law. 
And  I,  who  was  first  in  his  heart,  am  last, 

Each  year  crowded  further  back. 
I  am  growing  old  so  fast. 

And  I'll  die  without  getting  a  seal-skin  sacque. 

Last  week  I  just  asked  him  for  twenty  cents. 
He  looked  at  me  cold  and  blank  ; 

Then  pointing  to  us  twenty-one  wives,  he  sighed, 
"  D'  ye  think  I'm  a  Rothschild's  bank?  " 

And  now  here's  one  more  to  divide  us. 
She'll  get  the  lion's  share, 

Except  when  she  grabs  at  his  old  bald  head, 
She  won't  get  her  share  of  hair. 

But  some  day  the  angel  of  God  will  come 

And  the  poor  man  must  go; 
How  mournful  the  funeral  rites  will  be 

With  all  us  widders  in  woe  ; 
Our  forty-two  eyes  a  sheddin'  tears. 

Our  ni!iety-three  children  round. 
How  stylishly  grand  the  procession  will  be 

Stretched  out  to  the  burying-ground. 

And  when  we  are  all  lying  side  by  side, 
Smitli's  grave-yard  will  be  immense  ; 

The  children's  white  head-stones  all  in  a  row 
Will  look  like  a  picket  fence ; 


108  ii ^^  I  /^/-V (,  >,   L'KCl  TA  TIONS, 

And  wiieii  the  last  trump  that  awakes  the  dead 
Shall  echo  through  heaven's  dome, 

Smith's  family  will  climb  up  the  golden  stairs. 
Like  camp-meeting  going  home. 

L.  B,  Cake. 


THE  DREAMLAND  SEA. 

What  matter  though  my  pilgrim  feet 

May  never  press  the  stranger's  land, 
Or  wander  lone  where  wild  waves  beat 

With  ceaseless  moan  on  ocean's  strand  ? 
For  me  expands  a  lovelier  deep, 

Whose  isles  in  visioned  beauty  sleep; 
And  never  ocean  waves  could  be 

So  bright  as  thine,  fair  dreamland  sea. 

My  castle  crowns  the  boldest  steep 

By  warring  winds  and  waters  scarred, 
That  seaward  leans,  and  o'er  the  deep 

Keeps  evermore  unceasing  ward. 
Full-freighted  with  their  wings  of  snow, 

Tiie  while  ships  come,  the  white  ships  go ; 
While  in  the  shade  of  cliff  and  towers 

I  dream  away  the  gliding  hours. 

My  fairy  fleet  that  long  has  lain 

Close  moored  in  some  enchanted  bay, 
Borne  by  fair  gales  across  the  main 

Sails  swifty  on  its  homeward  way. 
My  ships,  my  stately  ships,  I  see  ! 

Full  many  a  roj'al  argosie. 
Like  white- winged  birds  they  speeding  come 

And  bring  tlieir  garnered  treasures  home. 

WEE  JOUKYDAIDLES. 

Wee  Joukydaidles,  toddlin'  cot  an'  in ; 
Oh,  but  she's  a  cutty,  makin'  sic  a  din  I 


AND  IMP KR SON AI IONS.  l09 

Aye  so  fu'  o'  mischief,  and  minds  na  what  I  say  : 
My  very  heart  gangs  loup,  loup,  fifty  times  a  day ! 

Wee  Joukydaidles :  where's  slie  stumpin'  iioo  ? 
She's  tumblin'  i'  the  cruivie,  and  lauchin'  to  the  soo, 
Noo  she  sees  my  angry  ee,  an'  aff  she's  like  a  hare  ! 
Lassie,  Avhen  I  get  ye,  I'll  scud  ye  till  ye're  sair  ! 

Wee  Joukydaidles:  noo  she's  breakin'  dishes; 
Noo  she's  soakiti'  tlie  burn,  eatchin'  little  fishes; 
Noo  she's  i'  the  barn-yaid,  play  in'  wi'  the  fouls, 
Feedin'  tliem  wi'  butter-cakes,  snaps  an'  sugars  bools  ! 

James  Smith. 


LE  MARIAGE  DE  CONVENANCE. 

You  have  called  for  a  glimpse  of  my  ti'ousseau  ? 

How  nice  !  just  step  into  my  room  ; 
And  Alice  please  draw  back  that  curtain, 

This  place  is  as  dark  as  a  tomb  ! 
I'll  ring  for  Lisette  ;  you  don't  know,  girls, 

What  a  bother  this  marrying  brings  ! 
But  it  pays,  after  all,  when  it's  over — 

I  have  some  such  elegant  things  I 

This  garnet  and  rose  Uncle  Arthur 

Selected  in  Paris  last  June ; 
Worth  made  it !  Just  notice  the  trimming, 

The  lace,  the  exquisite  galloon  ! 
This  sack  is  a  present  from  Flora ; 

She's  living  in  Paris,  you  know. 
I  waited  on  her  when  she  married 

Old  Simons,  a  twelve-month  ago. 

They  say  that  her  rooms  are  palatial, 

And  all  in  such  wonderful  style ; 
Quite  a  change — to  a  man  with  a  million 

From  a  thousand  a  year  and  Tom  Lyle— 


110  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

By  the  way,  Colonel  Harrison  tells  me 

Poor  Tom  is  a  wreck  of  himself, 
Has  drank  ever  since  she  was  married. 

There's  ni}^  blue  moire  antique  on  the  shelf, 

You  need  not  unfold  it,  Lisette, 
We  see  how  it's  made  ;  please  to  find  me 

That  yellow-liued  Honiton  set. 
You  remember  that  queer  old  Aunt  Hester 

Who  staid  here  last  winter  awhile, 
And  preaclied  to  me  so  about  Flora 

And  sympathized  so  with  Tom  Lyle? 

The  lace,  like  herself,  is  old-f;ishioned, 

But  fit  for  the  praise  of  a  king. 
She  sent  it, — confess  that  you  tliink  it 

Iliglit  good  in  the  clever  old  thing. 
I've  a  set  of  magnificent  diamonds 

As  pure  as  a  cluster  of  tears ; 
The  gift  of  his  precious  old  father — 

They've  been  in  the  family  for  years. 

And  there  are  my  rose-colored  cameos. 

Don't  you  see?  by  the  pearls — just  this  sid«'; 
I  promise  their  match  to  whoever 

Among  you  will  be  the  )iext  bride. 
The  wonderful  dress  of  all  dresses, 

The  robe  of  to-morrow,  you  know, 
So  perfectly  stylish  and  splendid — 

I've  promised  mamma  not  to  show. 

Claude  says  I'll  be  so  bewildering 

He'll  forget  to  remember  the  ring. 
Come,  Alice,  of  wliut  arc  you  thinking? 

"  Of  the  lover  who  loved  me  last  spring?  ** 
Bah!  fold  up  my  dresses,  Lisette, 

And  don't  let  my  jewel-case  fall,' 
Tt*s  well,  Alice,  some  one  remembers — 

1  never  tliink  of  him  at  all. 


AXl)  IMPJiUi^ONATIONS,  HI 

Dear  me,  how  time  Hies  !  I  must  liuiry  ; 

Claude  said  lie  was  comiug  at  eiglit. 
Good-uight.    They  are  gone  ;  and  I  alone  in  my 
chamber, 

Door  locked  and  the  close  curtains  drawn. 
Alone  with  my  jewels  and  laces, 

A  sobbing,  a  miserable  thing, 
Alone  with  the  thoughts  that  possess  me 

Of  that  lover  who  loved  me  last  spring. 

God  knows  I  believed  that  you  loved  me, 

As  we  sat  on  the  steps  in  the  dark ; 
I  remember  the  words  that  you  uttered — 

I  know  that  they  mean  nothing  now. 
And  yet  with  the  thought  that  you  loved  me, 

My  cheek  caught  the  soft  scarlet  stain 
Of  the  sweet,  happy  shame  of  the  woman 

Who  loves  and  is  loved  back  again. 

And  when  you  were  gone  and  the  moonlight 

Rose  softly  and  late  o'er  the  scene, 
I  knelt  in  that  dim,  dewy  garden, 

In  happy  thanksgiving  and  prayer. 
My  life  to  your  mood  was  a  mirror — 

God  pity  such  mirrors  as  these  ! — 
My  heart  was  a  deep-thrilling  organ,    , 

Your  love  was  tlie  hand  on  the  keys. 

Ah,  dear,  you  were  sure  that  I  loved  you 

Although  I  said  never  a  word, 
Why,  the  wild  heart  that  beat  in  my  bosom 

A  child  could  have  listened  and  heard. 
And  you  said,  laughing  low,  "  Do  you  fancy 

Your  silence  deceives  me  to-night  ?  " 
And  I  faltered  and  failed  in  the  answer, 

I  would  have  made  careless  and  light. 

I  had  prayed  for  love's  fruit  and  before  me, 

Behold  !  it  hung  golden  and  fair  ! 
But  how  could  I  dream  it  had  ripened 

Beside  the  dead  sea  of  despair  I 


112  HEADINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

God  gave  it  to  me  in  its  beauty  ! 

Within  it  the  cold  aslies  la}-. 
I  have  eaten  that  fruit  and  its  knowledge 

Stands  bitterly  by  me  to-day. 

What  liave  I  left  now  but  a  memory, 

And  perhaps  a  pale  flower  or  two  ? 
A  dainty  blue  robe  that  was  ruined 

By  sitting  too  long  in  the  dew  ; 
A  book  that  you  brought  me  that  evening 

When  you  came  in  the  storm  and  the  rain ; 
The  gliost  of  a  kiss  on  my  forehead, 

An  anguish  of  lingering  pain. 

Oh  !  life  is  a  terrible  drama  ! 

Each  actor  must  play  out  liis  r61e ! 
To-morrow  1  stand  at  the  altar 

With  a  lie  on  my  lips  and  ni}^  soul ! 
My  God !     When  I  see  on  my  finger 

The  gleam  of  that  bright  marriage  ring, 
Oh  !  shelter  my  soul  from  the  memory 
,  Of  the  lover  who  loved  me  last  spring. 

Sunt 


MY  SHIPS  AT  SEA. 

If  all  the  ships  I  have  at  sea 
Should  come  a  sailing  home  to  me, 
Ah  well !     The  harbor  would  not  hold 
So  many  sails  as  there  would  be, 
If  all  my  ships  came  in  from  sea. 

If  half  my  ships  came  in  from  sea 

And  brought  their  precious  freight  to  me, 

Ah  well !     I  should  have  wealth  as  great 

As  any  king  that  sits  in  state. 

So  rich  the  treasures  that  would  be 

In  half  my  ships  now  out  at  sea. 


AND  IMPEBSONATIONS.  113 

If  just  one  ship  I  have  at  sea 

Shoukl  come  a  sailing  home  to  me, 

Ah  well  I     The  storm-cloud  then  might  frown  J 

For  if  the  others  all  went  down, 

Still  proud,  and  rich,  and  glad  I'd  be 

If  that  one  ship  came  in  from  sea. 

If  that  one  ship  went  down  at  sea. 

And  all  the  others  came  to  me. 

Weighed  down  with  gems  and  wealth  untold, 

With  riches,  honor,  glory,  gold. 

The  poorest  soul  on  earth  I'd  be 

If  that  one  ship  went  down  at  sea. 

O  skies,  be  calm  !     O  winds,  blow  free — 
Blow  all  my  ships  safe  home  to  me; 
But  if  thou  sendest  some  awrack 
To  never  more  come  sailing  bad?. 
Send  any,  all  that  skim  the  sea. 
But  bring  my  love  ship  home  to  me. 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox* 


THE  BABY'S  PILLOW. 

"  So  tired,  mamma  !  "  our  darling  one 
Whispered  when  the  day  Avas  done, 

And  climbed  upon  my  knee. 
"  This  is  the  nicest  place  to  rest  "  — 
His  curly  head  upon  my  breast 

He  placed  so  trustfully. 
We  thoughtless  mothers  little  know 
How  far  each  day  the  children  go. 

If  we  could  measure  all  the  miles 
Tliey  travel,  with  their  tears  and  smiles, 

We  would  not  chafe  and  fret 
Because  they  leave  their  books  and  play 
And  come  to  us  at  close  of  day, 
8 


114  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Their  cheeks  with  tear-drops  wet ; 
Or  think  it  such  a  grievous  wrong 
They  ask  for  story  or  for  song. 

*'Su  tired,  nianinia!  a  story  tell 
To  Baby;  one  he  likes  so  well 

About  the  '  blessing  man' 
Wlio  liad  that  gentle,  loving  look 
And  in  his  arms  the  chihiren  took; 

Please,  mamma,  if  you  can." 
And  so  I  told  the  story  o'er 
As  I  had  done  so  oft  before. 

But  at  the  close  that  night  I  said, 

'^  Christ  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head 

When  he  was  tired,  my  child. 
Foxes  have  holes,  the  birds  have  nests 
And  children  have  their  mothers'  breasts." 

The  baby's  blue  eyes  mild 
Looked  into  mine,  and  then  they  strayed 
To  where  his  own  wee  bed  was  made. 

"  I  wish  that  I'd  been  there  that  time," 
He  gently  said,  I'd  given  mine — 

My  little  pillow  white — 
I'd  let  him  have  it,  too,  to  keep, 
So  he  could  have  a  place  to  sleep 

As  I  do  every  night. 
Mamma,  do  tell  him,  that  I  would 
Give  him  my  pillow  if  I  could." 

3Irs,  S.  T,  Perry, 


A  MADMAN'S  MANUSCRIPT 

{Prize  Recitation,  June,  1890.    N.  Mo.  State  Normal  School.) 

**  Yes ! — a  madman !  how  that  word  would  have 
struck  to  my  heart  long  years  ago  !  How  it  would 
have  roused  the  terror  that  used  to  come  upon  me 


AND  IMPEliSONATIONS.  115 

sometimes :  sending  the  blood  hissing  and  tiugiuig 
through  my  veins  !  1  Uke  it  now  though  !  It's  a 
fine  name !  Show  me  the  monarch  whose  angry 
frown  was  ever  feared  like  the  glare  of  a  madman's 
eye.  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  I  It's  a  grand  thing  to  be  mad  ! 
To  gnash  one's  teeth  and  howl  through  the  long  still 
night  to  the  merry  ring  of  a  heavy  chain  !  Hurrah 
for  the  madman's  house  !     Oh,  it's  a  rare  place  ! 

I  remember  days  when  I  was  afraid  of  being  mad; 
when  I  used  to  start  from  my  sleep,  and  fall  upon 
my  knees,  and  pray  to  be  spared  from  the  curse  of 
my  race.  I  knew  that  madness  was  mixed  up  witli 
my  very  blood ;  that  one  generation  had  passed 
away  Avithout  the  pestilence  appearing  among  them^ 
and  that  I  was  the  first  in  whom  it  would  revive.  I 
knew  it  7mist  be  so :  that  so  it  always  had  been,  and 
so  it  ever  would  be:  and  when  I  cowered  in  some 
obscure  corner  of  a  crowded  room,  and  saw  men 
whisper,  and  point  and  turn  their  eyes  toward  me, 
I  knew  they  were  telling  each  other  of  the  doomed 
madman :  and  I  slunk  away  again  to  mope  in  soli- 
tude. 

Large  dusky  forms  crouched  in  the  corners  of  the 
room,  and  bent  over  my  bed  at  night,  tempting  me 
to  madness.  They  told  me  in  low  whispers,  that  the 
floor  of  the  old  house  in  which  my  father's  father 
died,  was  stained  with  his  own  blood,  shed  by  his 
own  hand,  in  raging  madness.  I  drove  my  fingers 
into  my  ears,  but  they  screamed  into  my  head  till 
the  room  rang  with  it,  tliat  in  one  generation  before 
liim  the  madness  slumbered,  but  that  Ins  grandfather 
had  lived  for  j-ears  with  his  hands  fettered  to  the 
ground  to  prevent  him  tearing  himself  to  pieces..  I 
knew  they  told  the  truth. 

Ha  !  ha  !  At  last  it  came  upon  me,  and  I  wondered 
liow  I  ever  could  have  feared  it.  I  knew  I  was  mad, 
but  they  did  not  even  suspect  it.  How  I  used  to 
laugh  for  joy  when  I  was  alone  and  thought  how 
well  I  kept  my  secret,  and  how  quickly  my  friends 


116  READINGS,  JiECITATIOXS, 

would  have  fallen  from  ine  if  lliey  had  known  the 
truth.     Oh,  it  was  a  nieny  life ! 

Riches  became  mine,  wealth  j)Oured  in  upon  me, 
and  I  rioted  in  wealth  enhanced  a  iliousand-fold  by 
the  consciousness  of  my  well-kept  secret. 

How  those  three  proud  overhearing  brotliers  hum- 
bled themselves  before  me !  The  old  white-headed 
father,  too — such  devoted  fiiendship — he  worshipped 
me !  The  old  man  had  a  daughter  and  the  young 
men  a  sister;  and  all  the  live  were  poor.  I  was  rich, 
and  when  I  married  the  girl  I  saw  a  sndle  of  triumph 
play  upon  the  faces  of  lier  needy  relatives,  as  they 
thought  of  their  well-planned  scheme  and  their  fine 
prize.  It  was  for  me  to  smile.  They  little  thought 
they  had  married  her  to  a  madman  I 

Stay  !  If  they  had  known  it,  would  they  have 
saved  her  ?  A  sister's  happiness  against  her  lmsband*s 
gold?  In  one  thing  I  was  deceived  with  all  my 
cunning.  If  I  had  not  been  mad  I  should  have  known 
that  the  girl  would  rather  have  been  placed  stiff  and 
cold  in  a  leaden  coflin  than  borne  an  envied  bride 
to  my  rich  glittering  home. 

But  the  girl  ivas  beautiful !  In  the  bright  moonlight 
nights  when  I  start  up  from  my  sleep,  and  all  is  quiet 
about  me,  I  see,  standing  still  and  motionless  in  one 
corner  of  this  cell,  a  slight  and  wasted  figure,  with 
long  black  liair,  and  eyes  that  fix  their  gaze  on  me. 
Hush!  that  form  is  hers;  the  face  is  very  pale  ahd 
the  eyes  are  glass}'-  bright :  tliat  figure  never  moves  ; 
it  never  frowns. 

For  nearly  a  year  I  saw  that  sweet  face  grow  paler, 
and  never  knew  the  cause.  I  found  it  out  at  last 
though.  Slie  had  never  liked  me.  She  despised  my 
wealth  and  hated  the  splendor  in  which  she  lived. 
Slie  loved  another  !  This  I  had  never  thought  of.  I 
pitied — yes,  I  pitied  the  wretched  life  to  which  her 
cold  and  selfisli  relations  had  doomed  lier.  I  resolved 
to  kill  her!  to  free  lier  from  the  pain  in  which  she 
daily  lived!  Oh!  the  pleasure  of  stropping  the 
razor  day  after  day,  feeling  the  sharp  edge,  and  think- 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  117 

ing  of  the  gash  one  stroke  of  its  thin  bright  edge 
would  make ' 

At  last  the  old  spirits  wliispered  in  my  ear  that  the 
time  had  come.  I  grasped  the  blade  firmly,  rose  softly 
from  the  bed,  and  leaned  over  my  sleeping  wife.  She 
had  been  weeping ;  traces  of  tears  were  still  wet  upon 
her  cheeks.  1  laid  my  hand  softly  on  her  shoulder. 
She  started,  screamed,  and  woke.  As  she  neared 
the  door  I  bounded  forward  and  clutched  her  by  the 
arm.  Uttering  shriek  upon  sliriek,  she  sank  to  the 
floor.  I  heard  the  tread  of  footsteps  on  the  stair.  I 
replaced  the  razor  in  its  usual  drawer,  unfastened  the 
door,  and  called  loudly  for  lielp. 

They  came  and  placed  her  on  the  bed,  wliere  she 
lay  bereft  of  animation  for  hours.  She  died  next 
day.  The  old  man  followed  her  to  the  grave,  and 
the  proud  brothers  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  insensible 
corpse  of  her  whose  sufferings  they  had  regarded  in 
her  lifetime  with  muscles  of  iron. 

I  was  restless  and  disturbed,  and  I  felt  that  before 
long  m}^  secret  must  be  known.  But  I  ground  my 
teeth  and  struck  my  feet  upon  the  ground,. and  drove 
my  sharp  nails  into  my  hands  ;  and  no  one  knew  that 
I  was  a  madman  yet.  I  remember  how  I  let  it  out 
at  last  though.  Ha  !  ha  I  I  think  I  see  their  frightened 
looks  now ! 

Let  me  see  : — yes,  I  liad  been  out.  It  was  late  at 
night  when  I  reached  home  and  found  the  proudest  of 
the  three  proud  brothers  waiting  to  see  me.  "  He  had  a 
word  to  say  to  me."  My  recent  dissipation,  and  strange 
remarks  made  so  soon  after  his  sister's  death,  were 
an  insult  to  her  memory.  He  wished  to  know  whether 
he  was  right  in  inferring  that  I  meant  to  cast  a 
reproach  upon  her  memory,  and  a  disrespect  upon 
Iier  family.  It  was  due  to  the  uniform  he  wore  to 
demand  this  explanation.  His  uniform  ! !  A  uniform 
purchased  with  my  money  and  his  sister's  misery !  ! 

I  felt  the  madness  rising  within  me. — "  You  were 
very  fond  of  your  sister  when  she  was  alive — weren't 
you  ?     You  villain  !  I've  found  you  out !  I  killed  her ! 


Its  READINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

Tin  a  iiKidmaii  !  Down  willi  you  !  Hlood !  blood!  1 
will  have  it!" 

I  closed  with  him,  and  with  a  heavy  crash  we 
rolled  upon  the  floor.  It  was  a  fine  struggle,  that; 
for  he  was  a  strong  man  fighting  for  liis  life,  and  I  a 
furious  madman  thirsting  to  destroy  him.  His 
struggles  grew  weaker,  and  at  last  I  knelt  upon  his 
chest,  and  clasped  his  brawny  throat  firmly  be- 
tween both  hands.  His  face  grew  purple,  and  his 
eyes  were  starting  from  his  head;  when  the  door  was 
suddenly  burst  open,  and  a  crowd  of  people  rushed 
forward,  crying  aloud  to  each  other  to  secure  the 
madman  ! 

My  secret  was  out ;  and  my  only  struggle  now  was 
for  libert}^  I  gained  my  feet  before  a  hand  was  on 
me  ;  reached  the  door,  dropped  over  the  banisters, 
and  in  an  instant  was  in  the  street.  Straight  and 
swift  I  ran,  and  no  one  dared  stop  me.  I  heard  the 
noise  of  feet  behind.  On  I  bounded,  through  marsh 
and  rivulet,  over  fence  and  wall.  I  was  borne  upon 
the  arms  of  demons,  who  swept  along  upon  the  wind, 
and  spun  me  round  and  round  with  a  speed  that 
made  my  head  swim,  until  at  last  they  threw  me  from 
them  with  a  violent  shock,  and  I  fell  heavily  upon 
the  earth.  When  I  awoke,  I  found  myself  here — 
here  in  this  gray  cell,  where  the  sunlight  seldom 
comes,  and  the  moon  steals  in,  in  rays,  which  only- 
serve  to  show  the  dark  shadows  about  me,  and  that 
silent  figure  in  its  old,  old  corner. — Charles  Dickens, 


BEFORE  AND  AFTER  SCHOOL. 

{Before  School.) 

"  Quarter  to  nine!     Boys  and  girls,  do  you  hear?'* 
"  One  more  buckwheat,  then — be  quick,  mother  dear! 
Where  is  my  luncheon  box  ?  "     "  Under  the  shelf. 
In  the  very  same  place  you  left  it  youi-self ! " 


AND  niPERSONATIONS.  119" 

*'  I  can't  say  my  table  ! "     "  Oh,  find  me  my  hat !  " 
''One  kiss  for  mamma,  and  sweet  sis  in  lier  lap." 
"  Be  good,  dear  !  "     ''  I'll  try— 9  times  9's  81." 
"Here's  your  mittens!"  ''AH  right."  '*  Hurry  up, 

Bill ;  let's  run." 
Bang  of  the  door !  they  are  off,  girls  and  boys. 
And  mother  draws  breath  in  the  lull  of  their  noise. 

{After  School.) 

"  Don't  wake  up  the  baby  !  Come  gently,  my  dear ! " 
"  O  mother,  I've  torn  my  new  dress.    Just  look  here  !' 
I'm  sorry ;  I  was  only  climbing  tlie  wall !  " 
"O  mother,  my  map  was  the  nicest  of  all !" 
"And  Nelly  in  spelling  went  np  to  the  head!" 
"  O,  say,  can't  I  go  out  on  the  hill  with  my  sled  ?  " 
"I've  got  such  a  toothache."     "The   teacher's  un- 
fair!" 
"Is  dinner  most  ready  ?     I'm  just  like  a  bear  !  " 
Be  patient,  worn  mother,  they're  growing  up  fast. 
These  nurser}^  whirlwinds,  not  long  do  they  last ; 
A  still,  lonely  house  would  be  far  worse  than  noise ; 
Rejoice  and  be  glad  in  your  dear  girls  and  boys. 

Rhode  Island  Schoolmaster, 


WOMAN  AND  THE  ROSE. 

Fair  Flora  on  tlie  terrace  stands 
With  grace  in  every  pose, 

Green  leaves  of  m3a'tle  in  her  hands, 
Crowned  by  one  bright  red  rose. 

Of  human  kind  what  may  transcend 
That  maid,  wiiose  cheek  red  glows  ? 

In  floral  worlds,  what  can  contend 
In  beantv  with  the  rose? 


120  HEADINGS,  RECITATION S^ 

Pre-e milieu t  each  in  its  way 

They  traits  in  life  expose, 
Closely  allied  in  their  display, 

This  woman  and  the  rose. 

They  are  both  tender,  sweet,  and  fair, 

They  blush  as  they  disclose — 
Woman — charms,  so  chaste,  so  rare, 

Charms  so  chaste,  the  rose. 

Two  lives  thus  blest,  by  love  imbued, 

One  color  on  them  glows. 
And  nature  stamps  similitude 

On  woman  and  the  rose. 

As  girlhood  buds  to  woman  grown, 

And  bud  to  flower  blows ; 
Blooms  woman  where  most  love  is  shown 

Most  love  where  blooms  the  rose. 

Thus  as  they  bloom  man's  life  to  cheer, 
Their  summer  comes  and  goes  ; 

Though  woman  counts  hers  by  the  year, 
By  days  but  counts  the  rose. 

In  their  decay  one  germ  remains. 

The  source  of  all  their  woes  ; 
In  woman  this  the  face  explains, 

In  fading,  this  the  rose. 

And  when  at  last  life's  race  is  run. 

Funereal  rites  impose 
Sad  tributes  to  and  from  each  one — 

The  woman  and  the  rose. 

How  fitting  then  in  death's  dark  trust 
One  grave  should  o'er  them  close, 

And  there  should  mingle  the  sweet  dust 
Of  woman  and  the  rose. 

Jame»  Stewart. 


AND  IMPERSONAriONS.  121 

TWICKENHAM  FERRY. 

"  0-hoi-ye-ho  !     Ho-ye-lio  !     Who's  for  the  ferry? 
The  briar's  in  bud,  the  sun's  going  down, 
And  I'll  row  ye  so  swift,  and  I'll  row  ye  so  steady, 
And  'tis  but  a  mile  to  Twickenliani  Town." 

The  ferryman's  slim,  and  the  ferryman's  young, 
And  he's  just  a  soft  twang  in  the  turn  of  his  tongue, 
And  he's  fresh  as  a  pippin,  and  brown  as  a  berry 
And  'tis  but  a  penny  to  Twickenliam  Town. 

"  0-hoi-ye-ho !     Ho-ye-ho !     I'm  for  the  ferry  ! 
The  briar's  in  bud ;  the  sun's  going  down, 
And  it's  late  as  it  is,  and  I  haven't  a  penny. 
Oh  !  how  shall  I  get  me  to  Twickenham  Town  ?  '* 

She'd  a  rose  in  her  bonnet,  and  oh,  she  looked  sweet 
As  the  little  pink  flower  that  grows  in  the  wheat. 
With  her  cheeks  like  a  rose,  and  her  lips  like  a  cherry, 
"  And  sure    and    i/ou're    welcome  to   Twickenham 
Town." 

"  0-hoi-ye-ho !  Ho-ye-ho !  I'm  for  the  ferry  !  " 
"Aha  !  But  the  briar's  in  bud,  the  sun's  going  down, 
You're  too  late  for  the  Ferry." 

And  he's  not  rowing  swift,  and  he's  not  rowing  steady, 
You'd  think  'twas  a  journey  to  Twickenham  Town. 

*'Oho — and  oho !  "  "Ha !  ha  !  you  may  call  as  you  will; 
The  moon  is  arising  on  Petersham  Hill, 
But  with  love  like  a  rose  in  the  stern  of  the  wherry 
There's  danger  in  crossing  to  Twickenham  Town.'* 


ROBIN. 
(Prize  Hecitation,  Jan.  1S89.    N.  Mo.  State  Normal) 

Sell  old  Robin,  did  you  say? 
Well,  I  reckon  not  to-day. 


122  READING!^,  RECITATIONS, 

I  liiive  let  you  liiivc  your  way 

With  the  meadows  and  the  fallows  ; 

Draining  swamps,  and  filling  hollows  ; 

And  you're  mighty  deep,  Don  Alvoord, 

But  the  sea  itself  has  shallows  ; 

And  there  are  some  things  you  dou't  know. 

No,  you're  not  so  green,  of  course. 

As  to  feed  a  worn-out  horse 

Out  of  pity  and  remorse,  very  long. 

But  as  long  as  I  am  master 

Of  a  bit  of  slied  or  pasture. 

Not  for  all  the  wealth  of  a  Vanderbilt  or  Astor 

Would  I  do  old  Robin  there,  such  a  wrong! 

lie  is  old  and  lame,  alas  ! 

Don't  disturb  him  as  you  pass. 

Let  him  lie  tljere  while  he  may, 

And  enjoy  the  summer  weather. 

We  were  young  and  gay  together. 

It  was  I  who  rode  him  first.     Ah,  the  day  I 

I  was  just  a  little  cliap  in  first  coat  and  cap 

And  I  left  my  mother's  lap  at  the  door. 

See  him  start  and  prick  liis  ears ! 

I  believe  he  understands  every  word ! 

And  once  more,  it  may  be,  fancies 

He  carries  me,  and  prances, 

While  my  mother  from  tlie  doorway, 

Follows  us  with  liapp3^  ghinces. 

You  may  laugh,  but  poor  old  Robin 
'Does  he  know  how  I  used  to  cling  and  crow. 
As  I  rode  him  to  and  fro  and  around? 
Ah,  the  nag  you  so  disdain 
With  scanty  tail  and  mane 
Then  was  taper-limbed  and  glossy, 
As  we  rode  away  to  school 
In  the  morning  fresh  and  cool. 
One  day,  beside  the  pool,  where  he  drank, 
Leaning  on  my  handsome  trotter, 
Glancing  up  across  the  water 


AND  IMPEUt6  0NATI0NS.  123 

To  tlie  judge's  terraced  orchard, 

Mary  I  spied,  the  judge's  daughter  ! 

In  a  frame  of  sunny  boughs  on  the  bank  ! 

Smiling  down  on  horse  and  boy  ; 

Smiling  down  so  sweet  and  coy, 

That  I  thrilled  with  bashful  joy,  as  she  said, 

''  Would  you  like  to  have  some  cherries  ? 

There  are  nice  ones  on  this  terrace, 

Tliese  are  white-hearts,  on  this  tree  overhead." 

Was  it  Robin,  more  than  I 

That  pleased  her  girlish  eye? 

Half  I  fear ! 

Off  she  ran  ;  but  not  a  great  way ; — 

Black-hearts,  white-hearts,  sweet-hearts  straightway  I 

Horse  and  boy  were  soon  familiar 

With  tliat  hospitable  gateway, 

And  a  happy  fool  was  I  for  a  year. 

Lord  forgive  an  only  child  ! 

All  the  blessings  on  me  piled 

Only  helped  to  make  me  wild  and  perverse. 

Racing,  idling,  belting,  tippling, 

Wasted  soon  my  list  resources. 

P'ather,  happy  in  liis  grave. 

Praying  mother  could  not  save. 

Often  Mary  urged  and  pleaded. 

And  the  good  judge  interceded, 

Counseled,  blamed,  insisted,  threatened. 

Tears  and  threats  were  all  unheeded 

And  I  answered  them  in  wrath  ! 

It  Avas  done !  to  old  Robin's  back  I  sprung 

And  away  !  no  repentance,  no  compassion, 

On  I  plunged  in  headlong  fashion, 

In  a  fierce,  despairing  passion, 

Through  the  blind  and  raging  gusts, 

Mad  as  they. 

(^ 
From  bad  to  worse  was  now  my  game. 
My  poor  mother  tried  to  shield  me, 
To  reclaim  me.     Did  her  best. 


124  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Creditors  began  to  clamor, 
I  could  only  lie  and  stammer. 
All  we  had  was  pledged  for  payment, 
•  All  was  sold  beneath  the  liammer, 
Old  Kobin  there  along  with  tlie  rest, 
Laughing,  jeering,  I  stood 
Watching  those  who  came  to  buy, 
1  looked  on,  but  did  not  falter. 
Till  the  last  man  had  departed 
Leading  Kobin  by  the  halter. 
Then  to  a  lonely  wood  I  fled 
Hating  heaven  and  all  its  mercies. 
For  my  follies  and  reverses. 
There  I  plunged  in  self-abasement, 
There  took  refuge  in  self-curses. 

As  I  wandered  home  that  night, 

Something  far  off  caught  my  sight 

In  the  lane,  coining  to  the  bars  to  meet  me. 

Some  illusion  sent  to  cheat  me  ? 

No.     'Twas  Robin !     My  old  Robin, 

Dancing,  whinnying  to  greet  me. 

With  a  small  white  paper  tied  to  his  mane. 

The  small  missive  I  unstrung, 

To  old  Robin's  neck  I  clung 

There  I  cried,  and  there  I  hung. 

While  I  read,  in  a  liand  I  knew  was  Mary's, 

"One  whose  friendship  never  varies, 

Sends  this  gift." 

No  name  was  signed, 

But  a  painted  bunch  of  cherries. 

On  the  daintv  note  smiled  instead. 


There  he  lies  now,  gaunt,  and  stiff  of  limb, 

But  to  lier  and  me,  the  same  dear  old  Robin* 

Never,  steed,  I  think  was  fairer  ! 

Still  I  see  liim  the  proud  bearer 

Of  my  pardon  and  salvation. 

And  he  yet  shall  be  a  sharer  in  my  joy. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  125 

It  is  strange,  that  by  the  time, 
I  a  man,  and  in  my  prime, 
He  should  be  guilty  of  the  crime  of  old  age. 
But  he  shall  have  his  i-ack  and  pasture, 
And  some  years  of  comfort  yet,  I'll  engage. 
See  that  merry  little  lass  tripping  to  and  fro, 
To  pick  up  little  hands  full  of  grass 
Which  he  chews?     And  that  snniU  urchhi 
Trying  to  climb  up  ?  and  ride  hiui,  lying  ? 
And  as  hard  hearted  as  you,  Dan. 
What?     Crying  are  you?     Well  you  see 
An  old  horse  has  some  use,  after  all. 


AUNTY  DOLEFUL'S   VISIT  TO    HER  SICK 
FRIEND- 

How  do  you  do,  Cornelia  ?  I  heard  you  were  sick 
and  I  thought  I'd  jest  step  in  and  cheer  you  up  a 
little.  My  friends  often  say,  "  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you, 
Aunty  Doleful — you  have  such  a  flow  of  conversa- 
tion— and  then  you're  so  lively."  *'  Besides,"  I  said 
to  myself  as  I  come  up  them  steps,  "  perhaps  it's  the 
last  time  I  shall  ever  see  Cornelia  Jane  alive." 

You  don't  mean  to  die  3^et,  eh?  Well,  now,  how 
do  you  know?  You  think  you're  a  getting  better? 
Yes,  but  there  was  poor  Mrs.  Jones  a  sitting  up  and 
everybody  a  saying  how  smart  she  was,  when  all 
of  a  sudden  slie  was  seized  Avith  a  pain  in  her  heart 
and  went  off  like  a  flash. 

But  you  must  be  very  quiet  and  not  get  anxious 
or  excited  about  anything.  Of  course  things  can't 
go  on  jest  the  same  as  if  you  was  downstairs,  and  I 
wondered  to  myself  as  I  come  along  if  you  knew 
that  your  little  Sammy  was  a  sailing  around  in  a  tub 
on  the  mill-pond,  and  that  your  little  Tommy  was 
a  letting  your  little  Jimmie  down  from  the  veranda 
roof  in  a  clothes  basket  ?  Why,  what  is  the  matter, 
Cornelia?  Oh,  don't  worry  about  the  children;  I 
guess  Providence  will  take  care  of  'em.     You  thought 


326  READINGS,  UKClTATlONSy 

Bridget  was  a  watching  'em?  Well,  no,  she  isn't. 
I  saw  her  out  at  the  back  gate,  as  I  come  along,  a 
talking  to  a  man.  He  looked  to  me  like  a  bui-glar. 
I've  no  doitbt  but  she'll  let  him  take  the  impression 
of  the  door  key  in  wax  and  then  he'll  get  in  and 
murder  you  all,  Cornelia.  Theie  was  a  whole  family 
murdered  down  to  Kobble  Hill  List  week  for  fifty 
doUai-s. 

Don't  fidget  so,  Cornelia.  It'll  be  bad  for  the  baby. 
Poor  little  dear — come  to  Aunty  Doleful.  Poor 
little  dear  !  How  strange  it  is,  to  be  sure,  that  you 
can't  ever  tell  at  this  age,  whether  a  child  is  going 
to  be  deaf  and  dumb  or  a  cripple.  It  might  be  all, 
and  you'd  never  know  it.  But  them  as  have  got 
their  senses  don't  make  good  use  of  'em,  that  ought 
to  be  your  comfort,  Cornelia,  if  it  does  turn  out  to 
have  anything  dredful  the  matter  with  it.  The  wost 
thing  I  see  about  the  child,  Cornelia,  is  its  red  head, 
for  of  course  now  it'll  have  an  awful  temper  and  may 
get  hung  some  day.     Poor  little  dear! 

Well  I  reckon  I'd  better  be  a  going  now,  Cornelia, 
I  have  another  sick  friend  and  I  shan't  feel  that  my 
duty's  done  till  I  call  and  cheer  her  up  a  little. 
What?  Do  stay  a  little  while  longer?  Well  yes, 
if  it's  any  comfort  to  you,  Cornelia. 

Oh,  yes !  I  was  about  to  forget  to  ask  about  your 
husband's  health.  Well,  but  finds  it  pretty  tvarm  in 
the  city,  heh?  Well,  I'd  suppose  he  would.  Why, do 
you  know  that  they  are  jest  a  drappin'  down  there 
every  day  by  the  hundreds  with  sunstroke?  You 
must  be  prepared  to  have  him  brought  home  to  you 
any  day.  Anyway,  a  trav'lin'  back  and  forth  as  he 
does  on  them  railway  trains  is  jest  a  triflin'  with 
danger.  Dear  me,  what  dreadful  things  is  forever 
hanging  over  us. 

Scarlet  fever's  broken  out  in  the  village,  Cornelia. 
Little  Isaac  Potter  has  it,  and  I  saw  your  little 
Sammy  a  playing  with  him  last  Saturday.  Well, 
really,  I  must  be  a  Cfoing  now.  Why,  what  is  the 
matter,  Cornelia?     You  don't  look  as  well  as  you  did 


A^^D  IMPEliSONATIONS.  127 

when  I  first  come  in.  I  don't  believe  you  have  a 
good  doctor.  Do  send  him  away  and  get  somebody 
else.  Good-bye,  Cornelia,  if  anything  happens  just 
send  for  me  immediately.  If  I  can't  do  anything 
else,  I  can  help  lai/  you  out. — Dallas, 


A  LEGEND  OF  MARTHA'S  VINEYARD. 

Once  rambling  through  the  quaint  old  town, 

I  found  some  records  musty, 
And  traced  a  half-forgotten  tale 

On  pages  dim  and  dusty. 
The  simple  story  touched  my  heart, 

Its  loyal  pulses  swelling, 
And  lingered  in  my  thoughts  until 

I  felt  it  worth  the  telling. 

'Twas  in  those  dark  and  troubled  days 

When  future  good  discerning. 
Our  fathers  bore  the  rebel  brand, 

A  servile  safety  spurning. 
The  people  of  this  little  isle. 

Were  staunch  as  they  were  steady, 
Theirs  was  the  patriot's  fearless  trust, 

And  courage  always  ready. 

But  times  as  yet  were  sad  and  dark, 

A  night  uncheered  by  morning, 
And  British  strength  its  triumphs  won. 

Their  best  endeavors  scorning. 
One  wintry  day  an  English  ship 

By  stress  of  tempest  driven, 
Sought  shelter  there,  a  sorry  sight, 

Her  towering  mainmast  riven. 

Shoreward  the  captain  turned  liis  gaze. 
Perplexed — well-nigh  despairing — 

And  saw  a  flag-staff  on  the  green 
The  stars  and  stripes  upbearing. 


128  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

A  smile  replaced  liis  thoughtful  frown; 

"  Ho,  Luis  !  yon  stick  we'll  borrow ; 
That  Yankee  pole  shall  serve  King  George 

Before  this  time  to-morrow  !  " 

Later  he  stood  upon  the  green, 

And,  careless  of  resistance, 
The  townsfolk  heard  him  broach  his  plans 

With  insolent  insi.stance. 
Foremost  among  the  little  crowd 

That  grew  and  gathered  near  him, 
Three  school-girls  stood  with  flashing  eyes 

And  crimson  cheeks,  to  hear  him. 

And  when,  at  last,  they  turned  away, 

Each  fair  young  face  was  wearing 
A  look  of  stern  resolve,  while  low 

They  whispered  words  of  daring. 
If  in  their  homes  that  night  the  girls 

Were  chid  for  absent  seeming. 
None  guessed  what  weighty  secrets  filled 

The  hearts  unused  to  scheming. 

'Twas  midnight,  and  the  little  town 

All  tranquilly  lay  sleeping, 
When  through  the  silence  and  the  gloom 

Three  slender  forms  went  creeping. 
Some  breathless  moments — they  had  gained 

The  flagstaff — then  shone  brightly 
Their  keen-edged  axes,  while  their  strokes 

Fell  fast  and  thick,  if  lightly. 

Some  words  of  cheer  and  hope  they  spake 

To  spur  their  strength  so  slender, 
Then  plied  tlieir  liard,  unwonted  task, 

Those  heroines  brave  as  tender. 
Soon  louder  lang  their  strokes  and  words 

Till  tears  with  laughter  blending. 
They  saw  the  shapely  flag-staff  fall. 

Hewed,  hacked,  beyond  all  mending. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  329 

Then,  for  the  dawn  was  breaking  fast, 

They  fled,  too  happy-hearted, 
To  heed  tlie  sting  of  muscles  strained, 

Or  palms  that  bled  and  smarted. 
But  one  turned  back  to  gather  up 

With  almost  reverent  manner, 
And  kindling  look,  the  flag  she  loved — 

The  striped  and  starry  banner. 

The  morning  sun  displayed  their  work — 

Amazed,  the  early  risers 
Looked  on,  and  praised  the  ready  thought 

That  baffled  all  surmisers. 
Fierce  was  the  English  captain's  wrath. 

And  bitter  his  reviling, 
While  half  the  town  stood  grouped  around, 

Nor  cared  to  hide  their  smiling. 

Their  island  held  no  other  stick 

Of  timber  for  his  using. 
And  so  with  merry  scorn  they  met 

His  anger  and  abusing. 
The  youthful  heroines  of  the  day? 

Their  courage  long  was  vaunted, 
While  friends  and  kinsfolk  far  and  near 

Their  praises  fondly  chanted. 

Alas,  for  fame!  their  very  names 

Have  mouldered  past  retracing, 
The  time-worn  record  notes  their  deed, 

Then  stops — all  else  effacing. 
Blazoned  on  no  historic  page. 

They  lack  the  patriot's  glory, 
Unless  these  humble  lines  may  serve 

To  keep  alive  their  story. 

Corbett. 


130  HEADINGS,  HECITATIONS, 

KING  OF  CANDY-LAND. 

I  had  such  a  lovely  dream  last  night,  it  was  truly  so 

fine  and  grand ; 
I  thought  I  was  king,  all  alone  bv  myself,  of  a  land 

called  Candy-Land ! 
I  dwelt  in  the  great  lemon  cocoanut  walls  of  a  palace 

just  to  my  taste  ; 
With  its  furniture  made  out  of  all  things  nice  from 

taffy  to  jujube  paste. 

With  rarest  of  candies  at  every  turn,  obedient  slaves 

would  wait, 
And  my  throne  was  studded  with  peppermint  drops 

and  carved  out  of  chocolate, 
And  O,  'twas  such  fun  as  I  wandered  through  those 

beautiful  rooms  alone. 
To  bite  off  a  morsel  of  sofa  or  chair,  or  nibble  a  bit 

of  throne. 

Youths^  Companion, 


I  LOVE,  YOU  LOVE. 

Old  Jones,  the  village  pedagogue,  the  grammar  lesson 
called  one  day. 

Young  Bess,  a  maid  of  sweet  sixteen,  began  the  well- 
known  words  to  say : 

"First  person  I  love,"  iirst  she  said,  sly  Tom  beside 
lier  whispered,  "  me  ?  " 

"  Second  ])erson  you  love,"  Bess  went  on,  "  aye,  that 
I  do,"  said  Tom,  "love  thee." 

"Third  person  he  loves,"  still  said  Bess.     Tom  wliis- 

pered,  "  Who's  he?" 
"  Oh  !  Tom  "  said  Bessie,  pleading  low,  "  do  hold  your 

peace  and  let  me  be !  " 
"  No  whispering  !  "  called  the  master  loud,  and  frowned 

upon  the  forward  youth, 
"First  person  we  love,"  liessie  said.     "By  George,'* 

Tom  whispered,  "  t hut's  the  truth." 


A  XD  IMP  Eli  SON  A  TIONS.  1 31 

The    lesson  o'er  at  last,  poor  Bess   with   cheeks  all 

crimson  took  her  seat, 
While   Tom,  sly  fellow,  tried  in  vain  the  maiden's 

soft  bine  eyes  to  meet ; 
And  when  the  recess  hour  was  come,  Tom  begged  a 

walk  with  coaxing  tone, 
And  'neatli,  the  trees,  Bess  said  again  the  lesson  o'er — 

for  Jiim  alone. 

THE  PROVINCE  OF  HISTORY. 

The  concluding  paragraphs  of  a  historical  work 
may  well  be  brief  and  simple.  It  is  not  permitted  to 
the  writer  of  histor}^  to  moralize  at  length  upon  the 
events  Avhich  are  sketched  by  his  pen.  He  is  for- 
bidden to  conjecture,  to  imagine,  to  drean^.  He  has 
learned,  albeit  against  his  will,  to  moderate  his  en- 
thusiasm, to  curb  his  fancy,  to  be  humble  in  the  pres- 
ence of  facts.  To  him  the  scenery  on  the  shore  of  the 
stream  that  bears  him  onward — tall  trees  and  giant 
rocks — must  pass  but  half  observed,  and  for  him  the 
sun  and  the  south  Avind  strive  in  vain  to  nnd^e  entic- 
ing pictures  on  the  playful  e<ldies  of  human  thought. 
None  the  less,  he  may  occasionally  pause  to  reflect; 
lie  may  ever  and  anon  throw  out  an  honest  deduction 
drawn  from  the  events  upon  which  his  attention  has 
been  fixed.  Particularly  is  'this  true  when  he  has 
come  to  the  end. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  anchors  in  the  bay  of  the  present, 
and  realizes  that  his  voyage  is  done.  In  such  a 
moment  there  is  a  natural  reversion  of  the  thought 
from  its  long  and  devious  track  across  the  fields, 
valleys,  and  wastes  of  the  past,  and  a  strong  dispo- 
sition to  educe  some  lesson  from  the  events  which  he 
has  recorded.  The  first  and  most  general  truth  in 
liistory  is  that  men  ouglit  to  be  fi'ee.  If  happiness 
is  tlie  end  of  human  i-ace,  then  freedom  is  its  con- 
diti(ni.  And  tins  freedom  is  not  to  be  a  kind  of  half- 
escape  from  thraldom  and  tyranny,  but  an)])le 
absolute.     The  emancipation  in  order  to  be  e 


and 
niau'-i- 


:    J  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

pat  ion  at  all,  must  be  complete.  To  the  historian  it 
must  evei'  appear  strange  that  men  liave  been  so  dis- 
trustful of  this  central  principle  in  the  philosoph}^  of 
human  liistory.  The  greatest  fallacy  with  which  the 
human  intellect  has  ever  been  beguiled,  is  that  the 
present  has  conceded  to  men  all  the  freedom  which 
they  are  fit  to  enjoy.  On  the  contrar}^  no  age  has 
done  so.  Every  age  has  been  a  Czar,  and  every  re- 
former is  threatened  with  Siberia.  Nevertheless,  in 
the  face  of  all  this  baleful  opposition  and  fierce  hos- 
tility to  the  forward  and  freedom-seeking  movement 
of  the  race,  the  fact  remains  that  to  be  free  is  the 
prime  condition  of  all  tlie  greatness,  wisdom,  and  liap- 
piness  in  the  world.  Whatever  force,  therefore,  con- 
tributes to  widen  the  limits  which  timid  fear  or  sel- 
fish despotism  lias  set  as  the  thus-far  of  freedom  is  a 
civilizing  force  and  deserves  to  be  augmented  by  the 
individual  will  and  personal  endeavor  of  every  lover 
of  mankind;  and  on  the  other  hand,  every  force 
which  tends  to  fix  around  the  teeming  brains  and 
restless  activities  of  men  one  of  those  so  called  neces- 
sary barriers  to  their  progress  and  ambition,  is  a  force 
of  barbarism  and  cruelty,  meriting  the  relentless  an- 
tagonism of  every  well-wisher  of  his  kind.  Let  it  be 
remembered,  then,  that  the  battle  is  not  yet  ended, 
the  victory  not  yet  won.  The  present  is  relatively 
— not  absolutely,  thanks  to  the  great  warriors  of  hu- 
manity— as  much  the  victim  of  the  enslaving  forces 
as  was  the  past ;  and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  philan- 
thropist, the  sage,  the  statesman,  to  give  the  best  of 
his  life  and  genius  to  the  work  of  breaking  down,  and 
not  imposing,  those  bulwarks  and  barriers  which  super- 
stition and  conservatism  have  reared  as  the  ramparts 
of  civilization,  and  for  which  an  enlightened  people 
have  no  more  need  than  for  the  Chinese  wall. 

Of  all  things  that  are  incidentally  needed  to  usher 

in  the  promised  democracy  and  brotherhood  of  man — 

tlie  coming  new  era  of  enlightenment    and   peace — 

)ie  of  the  most  essential  is  toleration.     It  is  a  thing 

vvinch  the  world  has  never  yet  enjoyed — is  just  now 


ANT)  UrPERSOXATIONS.  133 

i>e^-inning  to  enjoy.  Almost  evcrv  ]  i'  o  of  the 
ancient  and  mediaival  history  of  niankii.d  iias  been 
made  bloody  with  some  forni  of  intolerance.  Until 
the  present  day  the  baleful  shadow  of  this  sin  against 
linmanity  has  been  upon  the  world.  The  proscriptive 
vices  of  the  Middle  Age  liave  flowed  down  with  the 
blood  of  the  race  and  tainted  the  life  that  now  is 
with  a  suspicion  and  distrust  of  freedom.  Liberty 
in  the  minds  of  men  has  meant  the  privilege  of 
agreeing  with  the  majority.  Men  have  desired  free 
thought,  but  fear  has  stood  at  the  door.  It  remains 
for  t!ie  present  to  build  a  highway,  broad  and  free, 
into  every  field  of  liberal  inquiry,  and  to  make  the 
poorest  of  men  who  walks  tlierein  more  secure  in 
life  and  reputation  than  the  soldier  who  sleeps 
beliind  the  rampart.  Proscription  has  no  part  nor 
lot  in  the  modern  government  of  tlie  world.  The 
stake,  the  gibbet,  and  the  rack,  tluimbscrews,  swords, 
and  pillor}^  liave  no  place  among  the  machinery  of 
civilization.  Nature  is  diversified  ;  so  are  human 
faculties,  beliefs,  and  practices.  Essential  freedom 
is  the  right  to  differ,  and  that  riglit  must  be  sacredly 
respected.  Nor  must  the  privilege  of  dissent  be 
conceded  witli  coldness  and  disdain,  but  openly,  cor- 
diall}^  and  with  good  will.  No  loss  of  rank,  abate- 
ment of  charactei*,  or  ostraci-m  from  society  must 
darken  the  pathway  of  the  humblest  of  the  seekers 
after  truth.  The  right  of  free  thought,  free  inquiry, 
and  free  speech  to  all  men  everywhere  is  as  clear  as 
the  noonday  and  bounteous  as  the  air  and  the  sea. 
May  the  day  soon  dawn  when  every  land,  from 
Orient  to  Occident,  from  pole  to  pole,  from  mountain 
to  shore,  and  from  shore  to  the  farthest  island  of  the 
sounding  sea,  shall  feel  the  glad  sunshine  of  freedom 
in  its  breast;  and  when  the  people  of  all  climes, 
arising  at  last  from  the  lieavy  slumbers  and  barba- 
rons  dreams  which  have  so  long  haunted  the  be- 
nighted minds  of  men,  shall  join  in  glad  acclaim  to 
uslier  in  the  Golden  Era  of  Humanity  and  the  uni- 
versal Monarcljy  of  Man  I — Rklpath. 


134  liEAlJlXGS,  RECITATIONS, 

LOOK  NOT  UPON  THE  WINE  WHEN  IT 
IS  RED. 

A  wreck  of  humanity,  tattered  and  torn, 

Close  by  the  wayside  was  sitting  forlorn  ; 

The  demon  of  drunkenness  had  left  its  trace. 

On  a  withered  and  wrinkled  though  once  handsome 

face. 
Life's  lamp  flickered  faintly  and  with  fitful  flame ; 
His  breath  with  an  effort  of  agony  came. 
Yet  he  spake,  "  Ere  I  die  let  me  this  warning  give, 
Young  man,  look  at  me  !     Shun   the   tempter  and 

live." 

*'  It  was  Christmas,"  he  said,  "  I  remember  it  well, 
I  took  the  first  steps  in  the  patliway  to  liell. 
Oh!  would  that  I  never  had  seen  that  sad  day. 
Or  the  beautiful  temptress  that  led  me  astray  ! 
'Twas  Christmas !  ah,  yes!     And  her  board  loaded 

down 
With  choicest  of  viands,  befitting  a  crown. 
The  fair  one  with  smile  on  her  radiant  face. 
While  every  movement  was  beauty  and  grace, 

"  With  jeweled  hand  filled  the  cup  with  red  wine 
Saying,  '  Drink  to  my  health  in  this  juice  of  the 

vine. 
Yes,  drink  ;  it  is  nectar,  'tis  pure,  it  is  old. 
Each  drop  in  the  goblet  is  worth  so  much  gold.' 
I  was  no  more  than  mortal,  resistance  was  vain, 
I  drank  the  sweet  draught  and  filled  it  again. 
My  brain  was  on  fire,  as  I  filled  it  once  more. 
Then  reeling  and  stag'ring  I  passed  from  lier  door. 

"  Now,  on  to  destruction  I  wandered  away 
Drinking  deep  of  the  poison  by  niglit  and  by  day, 
Till  my  fortune  liad  faded  :  my  friends  were  all  gone, 
And  left  but  the  wreck  that  you  see,  all  alone. 
The  demon  is  dragging  me  down  to  my  doom, 
And  ill  the  hereafter  where,  where  is  mv  home? 


AjVB  impersonations.  135 

I'm  going,  I  know  it,  the  c^ld  hand  I  feel, 

On  my  brow  death  already  has  set  his  dark  seal." 

A  struggle,  a  groan,  then  liis  soul  took  its  fliglit 
From  the  cares  of  this  world  to  eternity's  night, 
Oh,  fair  one,  remeniber  ;  one,  one  thoughtless  move 
The  wreck  of  a  life,  of  a  soul  may  yet  prove, 
Oh,  raise  not  a  beacon ;  let  no  straggling  ray 
Lure  one  from  tlie  path  of  true  virtue  away. 
Know  this;  that  if  ever  you  tempt  one  with  wine, 
That    much    of    tliy   poor    victim's    guilt   will   be 
thine. 

L.  R.  Phelps, 

THE  CFIEAP  JACK. 

I  am  a  Cheap  Jack.  My  father  was  one  before 
me.  So,  being  raised  to  tlie  business,  I  fancy  I  know 
pretty  well  what  tlie  ups  and  downs  of  a  Cheap 
Jack's  life  are.  And  it's  my  opinioji  there  are  more 
downs  than  ups. 

But  I  must  tell  you  that  J  courted  my  wife  fiom 
the  foot-board  of  the  cart.  1  did  indeed.  She  was 
a  Suffolk  young  woman,  and  it  was  in  Ipswich  mar- 
ket-place right  opposite  the  corn-chandler's  shop.  I 
had  noticed  her  up  at  tlie  window.  I  had  took  to 
her,  and  I  had  said  to  myself,  "  If  not  already  dis- 
posed of,  I  think  I'll  have  that  lot."  So  the  next 
Saturday  that  came  round,  I  pitched  the  cart  on  the 
same  pitch,  and  I  was  in  very  high  feather  indeed, 
keeping  'em  laughing  the  whole  of  the  time  and  get- 
ting 08  the  goods  briskl}^  At  last  I  took  out  of 
my  waistcoat  pocket  a  small  lot  wrapped  in  soft  paper, 
and  I  put  it  this  way — looking  up  at  the  window 
where  she  was:  "Nowhere,  my  blooming  English 
maidens,  is  an  article,  the  last  article  of  the  present 
evening's  sale,  which  I  offer  to  only  you,  the  loveW 
Suffolk  Dumplings  biling  over  with  beauty.  And  I 
won't  take  a  bid  of  a  thousand  pounds  for  it  from 
any  man  alive. 


136  HEADINGS,  liECirATIONS, 

Now  what  is  it?  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is. 
It's  made  of  fine  gold,  and  it's  not  broke,  though 
there's  a  hole  in  the  middle,  and  it's  stronger  than 
any  fetter  that  ever  was  forged,  though  it's  smaller 
than  any  finger  in  my  set  of  ten.  Now  what  else  is 
it?  Wliy,  it's  a  wedding  ring.  Now  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'm  going  to  do  with  it.  I'm  not  going  to 
offer  this  lot  for  money  ;  but  I  mean  to  give  it  to  the 
next  of  you  beauties  that  laughs,  and  I'll  pay  lier  a 
visit  to-morrow  morning  at  exactly  half-past  nine 
o'clock  as  the  chimes  go,  and  I'll  take  her  out  for  a 
walk  to  put  up  the  banns/'  She  laughed  and  got  the 
ring  handed  up  straightway.  And  when  I  called  in 
the  morning,  she  says,  "O  dear  I  It's  never  you,  and 
you  never  meant  it  ?  "  "  It's  ever  me,"  says  I,  "  and  I'm 
ever  yours,  and  I  ever  mean  it."  So  we  got  married, 
after  being  put  up  three  times, — which,  by  the  bj'e, 
is  quite  in  the  Cheap  Jack  way  again,  and  shows 
once  more  how  the  Cheap  Jack  customs  pervade 
society. 

Well,  she  wasn't  a  bad  wife,  but  she  had  a  temper. 
If  she  could  have  parted  with  that  one  article  at  a 
sacrifice,  I  wouldn't  have  swopped  her  away  for  any 
other  woman  in  England.  Not  that  I  ever  did 
swo[)  her  away,  for  we  lived  together  till  she  died, 
and  that  was  thirteen  yeais.  Now  my  lords  and 
ladies  and  gentle  folks  all,  I'll  let  you  into  a  secret, 
though  you  won't  believe  it.  Thirteen  3'ear  of  tem- 
))er  in  a  palace  would  try  the  worst  of  you;  but 
thirteen  year  of  temper  in  a  cart  would  try  the  best 
of  you.  You  are  kept  so  very  close  to  it  in  a  cart, 
you  see.  There's  thousands  of  couples  among  you 
getting  on  like  sweet  ile  upon  a  whetstone  in  houses 
of  four,  five,  and  six  apartments,  that  would  go  to 
the  Divorce  Court  in  a  cart.  AVhether  the  jolting 
makes  it  worse,  I  don't  undertake  to  decide ;  but  in 
a  cart  it  does  come  home  to  you,  and  stick  to  you. 
Wiolence  in  a  cart  is  so  wiolent,  and  aggrawation  in  a 
cart  is  so  aggrawating. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  137 

We  might  have  luul  yuch  ;i  j)leasaiit  life !  A 
roomy  cart,  witli  tlie  hirge  goods  hung  outside  and 
the  bed  slung  undenieaih  it  wlieti  on  tlie  load,  an 
iron  pot  and  a  kettle,  a  fne  place  for  the  cold  weather, 
a  chimney  for  the  smoke,  a  lianging  shelf  and  a  cup- 
board, a  dog,  and  a  horse.  What  more  do  you  want? 
You  draw  off  upon  a  bit  of  turf  in  a  green  lane  or  by 
the  roadside,  you  hobble  your  old  horse  and  turn  him 
grazing,  you  light  your  lire  upon  the  ashes  of  the 
last  visitors,  you  cook  your  stew,  and  you  wouldn't 
call  the  Emperor  of  Germany  your  father.  But  have 
a  temper  in  the  cart,  flinging  hnrd  looks,  and  harder 
words  atyou,  and  where  are  you  then?  Put  a  name 
to  your  feelings. 

Why,  my  dog  knew  as  well  when  she  Avas  on  the 
turn  as  I  did.  How  he  knew  it  was  a  mystery  to 
me  ;  but  the  sure  and  certain  knowledge  of  it  would 
wake  him  up  out  of  his  soundest  sleep,  and  he  would 
give  a  howl  and  bolt.  At  such  times  I  wislied  I  was 
him. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  we  had  a  daughter  born  to  us, 
and  I  love  children  with  all  my  heart.  When  she 
was  in  her  furies  she  beat  the  child.  This  got  to  be 
so  shocking,  as  the  child  got  to  be  four  or  five  year 
old,  that  I  have  many  a  time  gone  on  with  my  whip 
over  my  shoulder  at  the  old  horse's  head,  sobbing 
and  crying  worse  than  ever  little  Sophy  did.  For 
liow  could  I  prevent  it?  Such  a  thing  is  not  to  be 
tried  with  such  a  temper — in  a  cart — without  coming 
to  a  fight.  It's  in  the  natural  size  and  formation  of 
a  cart  to  bring  it  to  a  fight.  And  then,  if  I  interfered 
in  the  least,  the  poor  child  would  get  Avorse  terrified 
than  before,  as  well  as  worse  hurt  generally,  and  her 
mother  would  make  complaints  to  the  next  people 
we  lighted  on,  and  the  word  would  go  round: 
*'  Here's  a  wretch  of  a  Cheap  Jack  been  a  beatino^  jiis 
wife." 

Little  Sophy  was  such  a  brave  child  !  She  grew 
to  be  quite  devoted  to  her  poor  father,  though  he 
could  do  so  little  to  help  lier.     She  had  a  wonderful 


138  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

quantity  of  shining  dark  liair,  all  curling  natural 
about  her.  It  is  quite  astonishing  to  nie  now  that  I 
didn't  go  tearing  mad,  when  I  used  to  see  her  lun 
from  her  mother  before  the  cart,  and  her  mother 
catch  her  bj  her  hair  and  pull  her  down  by  it  and 
beat  her. 

Such  a  brave  child  I  said  she  was!  ah!  with  rea- 
son. "  Don't  you  mind  next  time,  father  dear,"  she 
Avould  whisper  to  ine  with  her  little  face  still  flushed 
and  her  bright  eyes  still  wet ;  "if  I  don't  cry  out, 
you  may  know  I'm  not  much  hurt.  And  even  if  I 
do  cry  out,  it  will  only  be  to  get  mother  to  let  go 
and  leave  off." 

Yet  in  other  respects  her  mother  took  great  care  of 
hei".  Her  clothes  were  always  neat  and  clean,  and 
her  mother  was  never  tired  of  working  at  them .  Such 
is  the  inconsistency  of  things.  Our  being  down  in 
the  marsh  country  in  unhealthy  weatiier,  I  consider 
tlie  cause  of  little  Sophy's  taking  bad  low  fever; 
however,  she  took  it,  and  once  she  got  it  she  turned 
away  from  her  mother  forever  more.  Whenever 
her  mother  came  near  her,  she  would  sliiver  and  say, 
"  No,  no,  no,"  and  would  hide  her  face  on  my  shoulder, 
and  hold  me  tighter  round  the  neck. 

The  Cheap  Jack  business  had  been  worse  than  ever 
I  had  known  it,  and  I  was  run  dry  of  money,  for 
which  reason,  one  night  at  that  period  of  little 
Si)[)hy's  being  so  bad,  either  we  must  have  come  to  a 
dead-lock  for  victuals  and  drink,  or  I  nuist  have 
pitched  the  cart,  as  I  did. 

I  could  not  get  the  dear  child  to  lie  down  or  leave 
go  of  me  for  one  moment,  and  indeed  I  hadn't  the 
heart  to  try,  so  I  stepped  out  on  the  foot-board  with 
her  holding  round  my  neck.  They  .all  set  up  a  lau<,di 
when  they  see  us,  and  one  chuckle  -  head  ■ — that  I 
hated  for  it — made  the  bidding,  "  tuppence  lor  her  !" 

"  Now,  you  country  boobies,"  says  I — feeling  as  if 
my  heart  would  break — "  I  give  you  fair  warning 
that  rn\  a  goiiig  to  charm  the  money  right  out  of 
your  pockets.     And  why  ?     Because  I  sell  my  goods 


A  WD  IMPEIiSONATIONS.  I39 

for  seventy-five  per  cent  less  than  I  give  for  'em 
Now,  let's  know  what  you  want  to-night  and  you. 
shall  have  it.  But  first  of  all,  shall  I  tell  you  why  I 
have  got  this  little  girl  around  my  neck?  You  don't 
want  to  know?  Then  you  shall.  She  belongs  to 
the  fairies.  She's  a  fortune-teller.  Siie  can  tell  me 
all  about  you  in  a  whisper,  and  can  put  me  up  to 
whether  you're  going  to  buy  a  lot  or  leave  it.  Now, 
do  you  want  a  saw?  No,  she  says  you  don't; 
because  yoii're  too  clumsy  to  use  one.  Else  here's 
a  saw  that  would  be  a  lifeh)ng  blessing  to  r.  man,  at 
four  shillinq-.s— four  sliillinofs — at  tin-ee  anvi  six— 
going  at  three  and  six — at  tliree — at  two  and  six — 
two  and  six — two  and  six.  But  none  of  you  shall 
have  it  at  any  price,  on  account  of  your  well-knowTi 
awkwjirdness,  which  would  make  it  manslaughter. 
Now  I'm  a  going  to  ask  her  what  you  do  want.  Then 
I  whispered,  '•  Your  head  burns  so  that  I  am  afraid 
it  hurts  you  bad,  my  pet,"  and  she  answered  without 
opening  iier  heavy  eyes,  "  just  a  little,  father." 

"  Oh !  this  little  fortune-teller  says  its  a  memoran- 
dum book  you  want.  Then  why  'lidu't  you  mention 
it?  Here  it  is.  L  »ok  at  it.  J  wo  hundi-ed  suj^erfine, 
hot-pressed,  wire- wove  pages — if  you  don't  believe 
me  count  'em — ready  ruled  for  your  expenses — an 
everlastingly  pointed  pencil  to  put  'em  down  witli,  a 
double  bladed  pen-knife  to  scratch  'em  out  with,  a 
book  of  printed  tables  to  calculate  your  income  with, 
and  a  camp-stool  to  sit  down  upon  while  you  give 
your  mind  to  it!  Stop!  and  an  umbrella  to  keep 
the  moon  off  when  you  give  your  mind  to  it  on  a 
pitch-dark  night.  Now  I  won't  ask  you  how  much 
for  the  lot,  but  liow  little.  How  little  are  you  think- 
ing of?  Don't  be  ashamed  to  mention  it  because  my 
fortune-teller  knows  already." 

Then  making  believe  to  whisper,  I  kissed  lier  and 
she  kissed  me. 

"  Why,  she  says,  you're  thinking  of  as  little  as 
three  and  threepence.  With  an  income  of  forty 
thousand  a  year — you  grudge  three  and  sixpence. 


140  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Well,  then,  I'll  tell  you  my  opinion.  I  so  despise  the 
threei:)ence,  that  I'd  sooner  take  three  shillings. 
Three  shillings — three  sliillings — going — going  at 
three  shillings.  Tliere !  Hand  'em  over  to  the  lucky 
man." 

Just  then  I  touched  little  Sophy's  face  and  asked 
lier  if  she  felt  faint  or  giddy.  "Not  very,  father.  It 
will  all  be  over  soon." 

Then  turning  from  tlie  pretty  patient  eyes,  which 
were  opened  now,  I  went  on  again  in  my  Cheap  Jack 
style.  '^  Where's  the  butcher?"  (my  sorrowful  eye 
had  just  caught  sight  of  a  fat  young  butcher  on  the 
outside  of  the  crowd).  "She  says  the  good  luck  is 
the  butcher's.  Where  is  he?"  Everybody  handed 
on  the  blushing  butcher  to  the  front,  and  there  was 
a  roar,  and  the  butclier  felt  obliged  to  put  his  hand 
in  his  pocket  and  take  the  lot. 

Then  we  had  another  lot,  the  counter  part  of  that 
one,  and  sold  it  sixpence  cheaper,  which  was  very 
much  enjoyed.  Then  we  had  the  ladies'  lot — tea-pot, 
tea-caddy,  half  a  dozen  spoons,  and  a  silver  cup — and 
all  the  time  I  was  making  similar  excuses  to  give  a 
look  and  say  awoid  or  two  to  my  poor  child.  It  was 
while  the  second  ladies'  lot  was  holding  'em  enchained, 
that  I  felt  her  lift  lierself  on  my  shoulder  to  look 
across  the  dark  street. 

"  What  troubles  you  darling  ?  " 

"Nothing  troubles  me,  father.  I'm  nob  at  all 
troubled.  But  don't  I  see  a  pretty  churchyard  over 
there?" 

"  Yes,  dear." 

"  Kiss  me,  father.  Kiss  me  twice,  dear  father,  and 
lay  me  down  to  rest  upon  that  churchyard  grass,,  so 
soft  and  green." 

I  staggered  back  into  the  cart  witli  her  head 
dropped  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  says  to  her  mother, 
"  Quick  !  Shut  the  door  !  Don't  let  those  laughing- 
people  see." 

"  What  is  the  matter?"  she  cries. 

"Oh,  woman,  woman,"  I  tells  her,  "you'll  never 


AND  IMPEi:SO\A  /70.V.^. 

for  siie   liiiii 


catch  my  little  Sophy  by  the  hair  again,  fc 
flown  away  liom  you  !" — Charles  Dickens, 


THE  MARCH  OF  TIME. 

Upon  the  golden  span  of  to-day's  bright  shore  we 

stand, 
And  lookmg  back  through  retrospection's  vale, 
Visions,    sad   and   beautiful,    woven    in    life's   fitful 

dream,  before  us  rise. 
'Tis  spring,  and  o'er  the  earth  the  queen  of  beauty 

walks ; 
Boyish  footprints  on  tlie  hill-side  and  in  the  vale  we 

see. 
As  though  but  yesterday  they  had  been  made. 

Fancies  of  youtliful  mirth  flit  before  us 

With  the  same  freshness,  once  so  real, 

Ere  from  our  sight  they  were  hurried 

By  the  remorseless  flight  of  time. 

A  low-roofed  cottage  with  a  creeping  vine  peers  forth, 

And  down  the  beaten  path  a  mother  leads  her  boy ; 

And  autumn  with  its  ''  sere  and  yellow  leaf," 

Has  tinged  the  forest  trees,  and  given  place 

To  winter  stern,  who  holds  all  earth  in  fetters  grim. 

Gone  are  the  bright  visions,  leaving  in  their  stead 
A  lonely  grave,  and  on  the  damp,  decaying  mould 
An  aged  form  is  kneeling,  within  whose  eye 
We  recognize  the  boy  of  long  years  ago  ; 
And  as  the  moaning  winds  go  b}'. 
We  catch  the  trembling  cadence  of  his  voice 
As  he  sobs  out  the  name  of — motlier  ! 
In  one  swift  glance,  we  see  how  life  begins 
And  where  the  pilgrimage  will  end  ; 
A  mvth,  a  dream,  a  vision,   that  a  brentli   may  e'en 
'^^solve. 


142  liJJADINGS,  IIECITATIONS, 

Nations  by  tliat  invisible  power  spring  up 

And  people  tlie  broad  univ^erse. 

Arc;  born  and  do  live  to  droop  and  die; 

And  generations,  percnance,  yet  unborn, 

In  futaie  ages  upon  their  graves  may  look. 

The  mighty  warriors  that  guarded  once  tlie  gates  of 

Thebes 
Or  lined  the  banks  of  the  Eni»hrates, 
Had  for  tiieir  light  tlie  same  sun  and  moon 
And  beaming  stars  that  we  do  now  behold ; 
And    they  perchance    ofttimes    looked    back  to  the 

footprints, 
And  upon  the  resting  places  of  their  kindred  dust. 

Still  onward  sweeps  the  tide  of  years, 

Sceptres,  before  whose  imperial  sway, 

Nations  paled,  lie  broken*  empires, 

Proud  cities,  massive  gates,  and  mighty  walls  into 

decay 
Before  the  resistless  march  of  time  liave  crumbled. 
A  thousand  fleets  to-day  ride  high  o'er  ocean's  waves. 
To-morrow  a  thousand  ghostly  wrecks   bestrew  the 

shore. 
Yet  the  chariot  wheels  of  time  roll  on, 
And  we  still  backward  look  o'er  the  desolating  track 
To  that  which  was,  or  let  our  thoughts  go  onward. 
Trying  to  peer  into  the  unfathomable  mysteries 
Of  the  Great  Beyond,  to  catch 
A  glimpse  of  that  which  is  yet  to  be. 

But  Time,  the  great  leveler  of  all  things  earthly 
Strides  on,  his  footsteps  never  lag ; 
Suns  rise  and  set,  and  through  the  realms  of  space 
Glides  the  pale  moon,  bathing  in  her  silvery  light, 
Mountains,  rivers,  and  plains  that  reflected 
Her  glances  when  first  the  world  began. 
Seasons  come  and  go,  nor  heed  the  fate  of  man, 
But  thank  God,  a  hope,  gathering  strength 
From  that  golden  promise,  within  our  hearts 
Shines  forth,  whispering  of  a  fairer  land  than  this 


ASl)  IMPi:RSONAriONS.  143 

For  those  wlio  love  the  Lord, 

From  whence  there  will  be  no  looking  back, 

W.  S,  Walker. 


THE  CHILDREN  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

Four  playmates  gathered  by  a  rill, 

A  song  in  concert  singing. 
One  crippled  was,  dear  little  Will, 

Yet  happy  still  his  pure  voice  ringing. 

The  burden  of  their  strain  was  love 

For  him  who  blessed  a  little  child. 
Lo  !  on  their  vision  from  above, 

There  sudden  flashed  an  angel  mild! 

"Dear  children,"  low  the  angel  spoke, 
"  Each  whisper  me  with  upturned  brow, 

What  you  would  give  for  his  sweet  sake 
Were  the  dear  Saviour  present  now." 

"  Were  all  earth's  richest  jewels  mine, 
I'd  fondly  give  each  glowing  gem," 

The  eldest  said,  "and  all  should  shine 
On  Jesus'  brow  for  diadem." 

The  next  with  trembling  voice  replied : 

"  I'd  wreathe  his  cross  with  fairest  flowers, 

And,  kneeling,  kiss  his  wounded  side 

While  '  tear-drops  fell  like  summer  showers.'" 

"  And  I,"  said  cunning  little  Maud, 
"  Would  lift  my  lips  for  him  to  kiss ; 

Instead  of  papa,  I'd  say :  '  Dear  Lord, 
Thy  r-ame  may  all  the  angels  bless.'  " 

The  lame  boy's  pale,  dejected  face 

The  angel  scanned  with  kindling  smile, 

As  though  his  answer  she  might  trace 
In  that  soulful  look,  it  wore  the  while. 


144  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

''  One  simple  gift  is  all  I  have, 
Its  merits  measured  not  by  pelf 

Baptized  in  prayer's  all  healing  wave, 
I'd  freely  give  to  liim — myulf!  " 

"  O,  precious  one,"  the  angel  said, 
While  rapture  filled  her  azure  eye, 

"  The  victor's  wreath  shall  crown  thy  brow 
God  loveth  best  thy  wise  reply." 

Cieorge  B,  Griffith, 


THE  GRANDAME'S  STORY. 

Once  a  poet  went  a-roaniing,  over  mountain,  hill 
and  dale, 

And  he  paused  before  a  cottage,  nestling  in  a  pleas- 
ant vale  ; 

He  was  weary  witli  his  wandering,  and  he  sought  a 
cool  retreat 

In  the  broad  inviting  shadows  from  tlie  Summer's 
noontide  heat. 

Where  he  found  a  group  of  children  full  of  laughter 
and  of  glee. 

And  their  aged  Grandame  sitting  'neatli  a  spreading 
maple  tree. 

Grandma  rested  on  the  cushions  folded  in  a  rustic 
chair, 

And  the  shadows  and  the  sunshine  fell  upon  her  sil- 
ver hair; 

And  the  children,  fair  and  blooming,  full  of  graces 
rare  and  sweet. 

Sat  upon  the  fragrant  clover,  twining  garlands  at 
lier  feet. 

All  the  glory  of  the  harvest  shone  upon  the  valley 
plain. 

And  in  fields  anear  the  reapers  cut  and  bound  the 
ripened  grain. 


AND  IMPERSONAriONS.  145 

And  the  clatter  of  the  sickles,  and  the  voices  of  tb.e 
men 

Came  to  him  like  some  grand  anthem  winding 
through  the  sunny  glen  ; 

'Twas  a  scene  that  touched  his  spirit  with  emotions 
strangely  sweet, 

And  he  joined  the  children  sitting  at  the  aged  Gran- 
dame's  feet. 

They  had  talked  about  the  harvest,  he  iiad  joined 
the  children's  play, 

He  hud  told  them  of  his  travels,  and  of  countries  far 
away. 

Then  a  silence  fell  between  them,  and  they  heard  tlie 
sound  again 

Of  the  sharply  clanging  reapers,  and  the  voices  of 
the  men. 

Then  the  Grandame  fell  to  musing,  and  tlie  children 
ceased  their  play. 

For  upon  her  gentle  features  an  unwonted  sadness  lay. 

''She's  thinking  up  a  story,"  said  a  little  boy  at  last. 

''Tell  it,  Grandma,  tell  a  story  !  "  all  the  eager  chil- 
dren cried ; 

*'  Please  us,  Grandame,"  and  they  clustered  to  her  side. 

And  she  answered  to  their  pleading  in  a  voice  sub- 
dued and  low, 

"There's  a  story  I  will  tell  you  of  a  harvest  long  ago 

Tliat  doth  haunt  me  with  its  sadness,  that  returns 
with  keener  pain. 

When  I  hear  them  whet  the  sickles,  when  I  see  them 
bind  the  grain." 

So  she  wiped  her  misty  glasses,  stroked  a  wee  head 
crowned  with  gold, 

And  in  accents  strangely  tender,  unto  them  this 
story  told. 

"  In  a  quiet,  pensive  valley,  where  the  fairest  sun- 
beams fell, 

Where  reposed  the  softest  shadows  and  the  rose  and 
ik^phodel 

10 


146  READINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

Shook  their  rare  and  dreamy  sweetness  to  the  wincif 

that,  glad  and  free, 
In  their  bowers  sang  the  cliorus  of  the  wild  waves  by 

the  sea. 
Stood    a  wreatli-embowered  cottage  that  was  very 

fair  to  see 
Where    in    kne's    supreme     contentment    dwelt   a 

family  group  of  three. 

*'  Sang  the  wife  and  mother  Mary  at  her  work  that 

golden   morn, 
Gayly  sang  the  sturdy  reapers  as  they  reaped  the 

ripened  corn  ; 
And  a  little  boy  who  gamboled  with  a  lamb  the  door 

beside. 
To  the  music  of  their  voices  with  his  happy  song 

replied. 
Often  Mary  at  the  doorway  stood  and  gazed  upon 

her  boy, 
Wliile  his  rare  and  healthful  beauty  filled  her  mother 

heart  with  joy. 

*'Once  she  stood  thus,  fondly  smiling  at  his  sweet 
and  winning  grace, 

As  he  leaned  upon  the  lammie,  looking  down  into 
its  face. 

With  an  air  of  stern  reproving,  and  a  threatening 
fingei-  raised, 

While  the  lammie,  sad  and  wondering,  almost  plead- 
ing, npward  gazed, 

Wlien  at  last  with  ringing  laughter,  Willie  started 
to  a  bound. 

While  the  hunb  with  gleeful  rapture  chased  his  foot- 
steps round  and  round. 

*'  Till  in    looking  upward,  Willie  saw  his  mother's 

smiling  face. 
And  with  steps  that  rang  with  gladness,  sprang  into 

her  fond  enibrace. 


AND  IMPERSOy ATJON S.  U7 

Just  one  moment  there  she  held  him.  with  his  head 

npon  her  breast, 
Then   she  left  him,  crowned   with    kisses,  with    his 

mother's  blessing  blest. 
Busy  once  again  at  hibor,  all  her  soul  Avas  filled  with 

As  she  thought  upon  the  beauty  of  her  gentle,  lovely 
boy. 

"  Onward  passed  the  day  in  splendor,  and  the  glori- 
ous afternoon 

Found  the  heart  of  mother  Mary  liumming  still  the 
pleasant  tune. 

And  the  lovely  little  valley,  lying  'neath  the  shelter- 
ing hill 

Seemed  to  her  a  joy  forever,  but  the  air  was  strangelv 
still 

Not  a  sound  besides  the  twitter  of  the  swallows  'neath 
the  eaves. 

And  the  chanting  of  the  reapers  as  they  bound  the 
golden  sheaves. 

"  Then  she  hasted  to  the  doorway,  cast  about  an  eager 

look, 
O'er  the  lawn,  and  o'er  the  meadow,  down  the  course 

of  Willow  brook. 
But  no  trace  of  boy  or  lammie,  only  butterflies  and 

bees, 
And  a  golden   robin  flitting  out  and  in  among  the 

trees. 
'Willie!      Willie!      Come,  my   darling  I  '    but    no 

little  Willie  came, 
'  Willie  !      Willie  !      Come  to  mamma  !  '     All  was 

silent  just  the  same. 

"  '  Willie  !  Willie  I  Whither  straying,  art  thou  sleep- 
ing on  the  leaves? 

Hast  thou  gone  to  watch  the  reapers  binding  up  tlie 
yellow  sheaves  ?  ' 


148  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Fleet  of  foot,  and  wild  of  f;iiicy,  sped  she   to  the 

field  away, 
Asking  of  the  startled  reapers,  ••  Have  you  seen  my 

boy  to-day  ? ' 

*  He  was  here  and  watched  the  binding,  bound  tliat 

tiny  sheaf  you  see. 
Then  he  led  the  lamb  a  frolic,  full  of  laugliter  and  of 
glee.' 

*' '  Then  he  bound  a  bunch  of  lilies,  with  some  bearded 

heads  of  wheat, 
For   mother  Mary,  and  with  the  lammie  hastened 

home  with  flying  feet.' 

*  When  was  this  ?  '  the  mother  whispered.     '  It  was 

full  three  hours  ago ; 
It  was  in  the  heat  of  mid-day  and  the  sun  is  getting 

low.' 
'  Oh  my  Willie  !    Willie  !    Willie  !   where  art  thou  ?  ' 

the  mother  cried ; 

*  Ernest,   father,  tliere's    the    forest,   yonder   is  the 

restless  tide.' 

*'  And  the  father  dropped  his  sickle,  and  the  reapers 

left  the  grain, 
And  they  searched  the  beach  and  forest,  calling,  call- 

in(^,  but  in  vain. 
Calling,  '  Willie— Willie  I '      But   the   forest   made 

reply 
With  a  deeper,  sadder  silence  to  the  agonizing  cry. 
Then  they  looked  amid  the  grasses,  and  they  searched 

the  sandy  shore 
For  the  precious  wayward  footprints,  looked  them 

sadly  o'er  and  o'er. 

*'  But  they  found  no  trace  of  Willie  in  the  wood  or  on 
the  sand 

Till  at  last  there  came  a  hunter  bearing  in  his  trem- 
bling hand. 

Just  a  bunch  of  witliered  lilies,  and  a  dainty  little 
shoe 

Soiled  iuid  wet  with  forest  dampness,  with  a  loosened 
^trinlr  of  blue. 


AND  niPEESONATIONS.  149 

He  had  found  it  in  the  forest,  deep,  and  dark  and 

tangled  wild, 
This — the  only  token  of  the  lamb  or  of  the  child. 

"So  the  fearful  search  was  ended,  and  within  the  cot- 
tage lone, 

Ernest  sat  with  mother  Mary,  and  he  did  not  check 
her  moan. 

For  the  sturdy  reaper's  spirit  trembled  like  an  aspen 
leaf, 

He  was  thinking  of  the  fingers  that  had  bound  that 
tiny  sheaf. 

Rosy  fingers — dainty  fingers — where  their  waxen 
beauty  now? 

"  In  the  night  the  winds  w'ent  moaning,  and  a  cold  and 
dreary  rain 

Pierced  the  wild  depths  of  the  forest,  swept  across  the 
valley  plain. 

And  the  restless  sleeping  Mary,  weeping  as  the  winds 
went  by. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  tempest  heard  a  plaintive  plead- 
ing cry 

'  Father  !  father  I '  it  repeated,  *  father  !  father ! '  o'er 
and  o'er ; 

But  they  said  it  was  the  tempest,  just  the  wind  and 
nothing  more. 

" '  Willie  is  in  heaven,  mother,'  thus  they  said  to  soothe 

her  pain, 
'  There,  and  there  alone,  sweet  Mary,  shalt  thou  see 

thy  boy  again. 
Lo!  it    was   the  gentle  Shepherd   found   thy  little 

wandering  lamb. 
And  He  took  him  to  His  bosom.'    So  at  last  her  soul 

was  calm. 
Once  again  it  was  the  harvest,  and  the  silent  reaper's 

reaped, 
Mother  Mary  at  her  labor  sang  no  song,  but  sighed 

and  wept. 


15C  JiEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

**  When  a  hunter  from  the  forest  paused  before  the  cot 

tage  door, 
Bearing  in  his  hand  a  token  of  the  boy  tliat  came  no 

more. 
He  had  found  it  on  the  mountain,  near  the  ruins  of  a 

bower 
Built  of   moss,  and   vines,   and  branches,  that  had 

bloomed  with  many  a  flower, 
Where  they  knew  the  little  wanderer,  weary  with  his 

pleading  cry, 
Lay  among  his  tlowers  and  mosses,  all  alone,  at  last, 

to  die. 


"  And  he  brought  the  little  token,  all  that  now  re- 
mained of  him. 

Just  one  long  and  golden  ringlet,  twined  about  an 
oaken  limb ; 

And  they  laid  the  golden  ringlet,  with  a  new  and  sad- 
der grief 

With  the  lilies  and  the  slipper  and  the  tiny  wheaten 
sheaf." 

Mrs.  Henry. 


THE  BLIND  GIRL  OF  CASTEL-CUILLE. 

At  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 

Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 

Passed  a  merry  company 

Of  rosy  village  girls. 

All  singing  a  happy  strain, 

*'  The  road  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day." 

It  is  Baptiste  and  his  affianced  maiden 
With  garlands  for  the  bridal  laden ! 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  151 

But  how  comes  it,  that  among 

These  youthful  maidens  fresh  and  fair, 

So  joyous  with  such  laughing  air, 

Baptiste  stands  sighing  with  silent  tongue  ? 

And  yet  the  bride  is  fair  and  young  ! 

Oh,  truly  a  maiden  frail,  I  trow, 

Never  bore  a  loftier  brow. 

What  ails  Baptiste,  what  ill  doth  him  oppress? 

It  is  that  lialf  way  up  the  hill. 

In  yon  cot,  dwelleth  the  blind  girl  still,. 

Daughter  of  a  veteran  old  ; 

And  you  must  know  one  year  ago 

That  Margaret  the  young  and  tender 

Was  the  village  pride  and  splendor, 

And  Baptiste  her  lover  bold, 

And  for  them  the  altar  was  prepared. 

But  alas  !  the  summer's  blight. 

The  dread  disease  that  none  could  stay, 

The  pestilence  that  walks  by  night 

Took  the  3'oung  bride's  sight  away. 

All,  at  the  father's  stern  command  was  changed 

Their  peace  was  gone,  but  not  their  love  estranged. 

Wearied  at  home,  ere  long  the  lover  fled. 

Returned  but  three  short  days  ago. 

The  golden  chain  they  round  him  throw, 

He  is  enticed,  and  onward  led 

To  marry  Angela,  and  yet 

Is  thinkincf  ever  of  Margaret. 

Then  suddenly  a  maiden  cried 

"  Here  comes  the  cripple  Jane  !  " 

And  by  a  fountain  side 

A  woman,  bent  and  gray  with  years, 

Under  the  mulberry-tree  appears. 

The  maidens  toward  her  run  as  fleet 

As  had  they  wings  upon  their  feet. 

It  is  that  Jane  is  a  soothsayer,  wary  and  kind; 

She  telleth  fortunes,  and  none  complain. 

She  promises  one  a  village  swain 


152  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

And  another  ii  hap|»y  wedding  da}^ 
And  all  conies  to  pass  as  slie  avers ; 
She  never  deceives,  she  never  errs. 

But  for  this  once,  the  village  seer 

Wears  a  countenance  severe. 

And  from  beneath  her  eyebrows  thin  and  white, 

Her  ej^es  flashed  like  cannons  bright. 

She  takes  the  young  bride  by  the  hand, 

"  Thoughtless  Angela,  beware  !  lest  when 

Thou  weddest  this  false  bridegroom 

Thou  diggest  for  thyself  a  tomb !  " 

Saddened  a  moment,  the  bridal  train 

Resumed  the  dance  and  song  again. 

"The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day ! " 

By  suffering  worn  and  weary  ; 

But  beautiful  as  some  fair  angel  yet. 

Thus  lamented  Margaret, 

In  her  cottage  lone  and  dreary: 

'•  He  has  arrived,  arrived  at  last. 

Yet  Jane  has  named  him  not  these  three  days  past. 

Arrived !     Yet  keeps  aloof  so  far  ! 

And  knows  that  of  my  night  lie  is  the  star. 

When  he  is  gone  'tis  dark  !     My  soul  is  sad! 

I  suffer  !     O  my  God  !  come  make  me  glad  ! 

Come,  Baptiste !  Keep  the  promise  of  that  happier  day 

That  1  may  keep  the  faith  to  thee  I  plighted. 

True  love,  they  say,  in  grief  doth  more  abound  I 

What  then  when  one  is  blind? 

Who  knows?     Perhaps  1  am  forsaken  ! 

Ah  !     Woe  is  me  !     Then  bear  me  to  my  grave  I 

O  God  !  what  thoughts  in  me  waken — 

Away  !  away  !  he  will  return  !  I  do  but  rave  1 

He  will  return  1  I  need  not  fear  ! 

He  swore  it  by  our  Saviour  dear. 

Some  one  comes  !     Though  blind,  my  heart  can  see ! 

And  that  deceives  me  not!     'Tis  he  !  'Tis  he!  " 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  153 

Alas !  'tis  only  Paul,  her  brother,  who  thus  cries: 

"  Angela,  the  bride,  has  passed ! 

I  saw  the  wedding  guests  go  by ! 

Tell  me,  my  sister,  why  were  we  not  asked, 

For  all  are  there  but  you  and  I  ?  " 

"  Angela  married  !  and  not  send 

To  tell  her  secret  unto  me  I 

0  speak !  wlio  may  the  bridegropm  be?" 
"  My  sister,  'tis  Baptiste,  thy  friend ! " 

A  cry  she  gave  but  nothing  said, 

Milky  whiteness  o'er  her  cheeks  hath  spread. 

While  an  icy  hand  held  her  heart 

Crushed,  as  in  a  vice,  away 

With  a  hop  and  a  jump  went  Paul, 

And  as  he  whistled  along  the  hall 

Entered  Jane,  the  crippled  crone. 

"  Holy  virgin  !  tliou  art  cold  ! 

Art  chill  as  death,  my  little  friend ! 

What  ails  thee  sweet?"  "Nothing,  Jane  I 

1  heard  them  singing  home  the  bride 
And  as  I  listened  to  the  song  I  thought — 

Ah,  leave  me,  Jane.     I  am  weary  and  would  rest." 

Jane,  shuddering,  her  hand  doth  press, 

*'  Go  pray  to  God  that  thou  may'st  love  him  less ! " 

"  The  more  I  pray  the  more  I  love  ; 

It  is  no  sin,  for  God  is  on  my  side." 

Now  rings  the  bell  nine  times  reverberating 

And  the  white  daybreak  stealing  up  the  sky 

Sees  in  two  cottages  two  maidens 

Waiting — how  differentl}^ ! 

Queen  of  a  day,  by  flatterers  caressed 

The  one  puts  on  her  cross  and  crown. 

Decks  with  a  liuge  bouquet  her  breast 

Looks  at  lierself,  and  cannot  rest. 

The  other,  blind,  within  her  little  room 
Has  neither  crown  nor  flowers'  perfume. 


154  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

But  ill  their  stead,  for  something  gropes  apart 

That  in  a  drawer's  recess  doth  lie, 

And  'iieath  her  bodice  of  scarlet  dye 

Convulsive  clasps  it  to  her  heart. 

Then  kneels  upon  the  floor  and 

Whispers — *'  O  God  !  forgive  me  now  !  '* 

And  then,  the  orphan,  young  and  blind, 

Conducted  by  her  brother's  hand. 

Toward  the  churchyard  through  paths  unscanned, 

With  tranquil  air  her  way  doth  wend. 


"  Paul,  lay  thy  noisy  rattle  by 

And  tell  me,  where  are  we  ?" 

"  We've  reached  the  church,  dear  Margaret, 

Come  in,  the  bride  will  be  here  soon. 

Thou  tremblest !  O  my  God  !  Art  going  to  swoon  I  '* 

And  now  arrives  the  bridal  train 

And  with  it  brings  the  village  throng. 

In  sooth,  deceit  maketh  no  mortal  gay. 

For  lo  !  Baptiste  on  this  gala-day. 

Mute  as  an  idiot,  sad  as  yester-morning. 

Thinks  only  of  the  beldame's  words  of  warning. 

Already  the  mass  is  said, 

Baptiste  receives  the  wedding  ring, 

Ere  on  the  finger  of  the  bride  he  leaves  it 

lie  must  pronounce  one  word  at  least ! 

'Tis  spoken;  and  sudden  at  the  groomsman's  side, 

'''Tis  he  !  "  a  well-known  voice  has  cried. 

And  while  the  wedding  guests  all  hold  their  breath, 

"Baptiste,"  she  said,    "since  thou  hast  wished  my 

death, 
As  holy  water  be  my  blood  for  thee  !  '* 
And  calmly  in  the  air  a  knife  suspended ! 
Doubtless  her  guardian  angel  near  attended, 
For  anguish  did  its  work  so  well 
That  ere  the  fatal  stroke  descended, 
Lifeless  nhe  fell! 


AND  IMP  I'JU  SOX  AT  IONS.  155 

At  eve  instead  of  bridal  verse, 

The  Be  ProfmicUs  filled  the  air. 

Decked  with  flowers  a  simple  hearse 

To  the  churchyard  forth  tiiey  bear; 

Villao-e  ofirls  in  robes  of  snow 

Follow,  weeping  as  they  go. 

Nowhere  was  a  smile  that  day,  no, 

Ah  no  I  for  each  one  seemed  to  say — 

"  The  roads  should  mourn  and  be  veiled  in  gloom, 

So  fair  a  corpse  shall  leave  its  liome  I 

Should  mourn,  and  should  weep,  ah,  well  away! 

So  fair  a  corpse  shall  pass  to-day !  " 

Longfellow* 


HOW  RUBY  PLAYED  THE  PIANO. 

{Prize  BecUatlon,  Jan.,  18S8.   N.  Mo.  ><tal<'  Noruuil.) 

Well,  sir,  he  had  the  biggest,  catty-corned c^st  old 
planner  you  ever  laid  eyes  on  ;  somethin'  like  a  dis- 
tracted billiard  table  on  three  legs.  'J'he  lid  was 
histed,  and  mighty  well  it  was.  If  it  hadn't  been 
he'd  a  tore  the  insides  clean  out  and  scattered  'em 
to  the  four  winds  of  heaven. 

Played  well  ?  I  should  say  he  did  ;  but  don't  inter- 
rupt me.  When  he  first  sat  down,  he  peared  to  keer 
mighty  little  'boutplayin'.  He  tweedle-eedled  a  little 
on  the  trebble,  and  troodle-oodled  some  on  the  base, 
just  afoolin'  and  a  boxin'  the  thing's  jaws  for  bein'  in 
his  way.  And  I  says  to  a  man  settin'  next  to  me,  says 
I :  '*  What  sort  a  fool  playin'  is  that  ?  "  And  he  says, 
"  hush  ! "  Presently  liis  hands  commenced  chasin'  one 
another  up  and  down  the  keys  like  a  passel  of  rats 
scamperin'  through  a  garret  very  swift.  Parts  of  it 
was  sweet,  though,  and  reminded  me  of  a  sugar  squir- 
rel turnin'  the  wheel  of  a  candy  cage.  *'  Now,"  I  says 
to  my  neiglibor,  "he's  showin'  off;  he  thinks  he's  a 
doin'  of  it  now,  but  he  ain't  got  no  idee,  no  plan  of 
nothin'.     Now  if  he'd  play  me  a  tune  of  some  kind  or 


156  HEADINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

other,  I'd — "  But  my  neighbor  says  "  lieish,"  very  im- 
patient. 

I  was  just  about  to  git  up  and  go  home,  bein'  tired 
of  that  foolishness,  when  1  heard  a  little  bird  wakin' 
up  way  off  ill  the  woods  and  call  sleepy -like  to  his 
mate,  and  I  looked  u[)  and  see  that  Rub}'  was  begin- 
ning to  take  some  interest  in  his  business,  and  I  sot 
down  again.  It  was  the  peep  of  day.  The  liglit 
came  faint  from  tiie  East,  the  breezes  blowed  gentle 
and  fresli.  Some  more  birds  waked  up  iu  the  orchard, 
then  some  more  in  tlie  trees  near  the  house,  and  all 
begun  singiu'  together.  People  began  to  stir  and  the 
gal  opened  the  shutters.  Just  then  tlie  first  beam 
of  the  sun  fell  upon  the  blossoms  a  leetle  more,  and 
the  next  thing  it  was  broad  day  ;  the  sun  fairly  blazed, 
and  the  birds  sung  like  they'dsplit  their  little  throats; 
all  the  leaves  was  a  movin'  and  llashin'  diamonds  of 
dew,  and  the  whole  wide  world  was  bfight  and  happy 
as  a  king.  Jt  was  a  fine  niornin'  and  I  sa3's  to  my 
neighbor,  ''  Tliat's  music,  that  is !  "  But  he  glared  at 
me  like  he'd  like  to  cut  my  throat. 

Then  the  sun  went  down,  it  got  dark,  the  wind 
moaned  and  wept  like  a  lost  child  for  its  dead  mother, 
and  I  could  a  got  up  then  and  there,  and  preached  a 
better  sermon  than  any  I  ever  listened  to.  There 
wasn't  anytliing  in  the  world  left  to  live  for,  not  a 
thing!  and  yet  1  didn't  want  that  music  to  stop  one 
bit.  It  was  happier  to  be  miserable  than  to  be  happy 
without  being  miserable. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  old  Ruben  changed  his  tune, 
lie  ripped  and  he  rared,  he  tipped  and  lie  tared,  he 
pranced  and  he  charged  like  a  grand  entry  at  a  cir- 
cus. 'Peared  to  mc  that  all  the  gas  in  the  house  was 
turned  on  at  once,  things  got  so  bright  and  I  liilt  up 
my  head  ready  to  look  any  man  in  the  face  and  not 
afraid  of  nothin'.  It  was  a  circus  and  a  brass  band 
and  a  big  ball  all  goin'  on  at  once.  He  lit  into  them 
keys  like  a  thousand  of  bricks  ;  he  gave  'em  no  rest 
day  or  night;  he  set  every  livin'  joint  iu  me  a  goin' 
and  not  bein'  able  to  stand  it  no  longer,  I  jumped 


AND  Uf  P  Eli  SON. ir  IONS,  157 

spvausr  onto  my  seat,  mid  just  hollered:  ''^Go  it 
Ruhe)'' 

Every  woman,  man,  and  child  in  that  house  riz  on 
me  and  shouted, '' Put  him  out!  Put  him  out !  put 
him  out!"  "Put  your  great  grandmother's  grizzly 
gray  greenish  cat  into  the  middle  of  next  month  !  " 
says  I.  "  Tecli  me  if  you  dare ;  1  paid  my  money 
and  you  just  come  anigh  me  !  "  I  would  a  fit  any  fool 
that  laid  hands  on  me,  for  I  was  bound  to  hear  Ruben 
out,  now,  or  die. 

He  had  changed  his  tune  again.  He  hop-light 
ladies,  and  he  tip-toed  fine  from  end  to  end  of  the 
key-board.  He  played  soft  and  low  and  solemn.  I 
heard  the  church  bells  over  the  hills.  The  great 
organ  of  eternity  began  to  play  from  the  world's 
end  to  the  world's  end  and  all  the  angels  went  to 
prayers.  Then  the  music  changed  to  water  full  of 
feeling  that  couldn't  be  thought  and  began  to  drop- 
drip,  drop-drip,  like  tears  of  joy  falling  into  a  lake  of 
glory.  Oh,  it  was  sweeter  than  that.  It  was  as 
sweet  as  a  sweetheart  sweetened  with  white  sugar, 
mixed  with  powdered  silver  and  seed-diamonds.  I 
tell  you  that  audience  cheered.  Ruben  he  kinder 
bowed  like  he  wanted  to  say  :  "much  obleeged,  but 
I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  interrupt." 

He  stopped  a  moment  or  two  to  ketch  breath. 
Then  he  got  mad.  He  run  liis  fingers  through  liis 
hair,  he  shoved  up  his  coat  sleeves,  lie  drug  up  ids 
stool,  he  leaned  over,  and  sir,  he  just  went  for  that 
old  planner.  He  slapped  her  face,  lie  boxed  her  jaws, 
he  pulled  her  nose,  and  he  scratched  her  cheeks  until 
she  fairly  yelled.  He  knocked  her  down  and 
stamped  on  her  shameful,  and  then  he  wouldn't  let 
her  up.  He  ran  a  quarter  stretch  down  the  low 
grounds  of  the  base,  till  he  got  clean  into  the  bowels 
of  the  earth,  and  you  heard  thunder  galloping  after 
thunder  through  the  hollows  and  caves  of  perdition. 
And  then  he  fox-chased  his  right  hand  with  the  left 
till  he  got  clean  out  of  the  trible  into  the  clouds, 
Avhar  the  notes  is  finer   than  the  pints  of  cambric 


158  llEAUINCS,   irKCJTATIOXS, 

needles  and  you  couldn't  liear  notliin'  but  tlie  shaders 
of  'ein,  and  then  he  wouldn't  let  lier  go.  He  forward 
two'd,  he  cvost  over  first  gentleman,  he  chassade  right 
and  left ,  back  to  your  place,  all  liatids  around,  back 
and  fortii,  up  and  down,  turned  and  tacked  and  tan- 
gled into  forty-eleven  thousand  double  bow-knots. 

And  then  he  wouldn't  let  her  go.  He  fetcht  up 
his  right  wing,  he  fetcht  up  his  left  wing,  he  fetcht  up 
liis  reserve,  he  fetcht  up  his  center.  He  fired  by  file, 
by  platoons,  by  regiments  and  brigades.  He  opened 
his  cannon-siege  guns  down  thar,  Napoleons  here- 
twelve  pounders  yonder*  big  guns,  little  guns,  middle- 
sized  guns,  mines  and  magazines,  battery  and  bomb 
all  a  goin'  at  the  same  time.  The  house  trembled,  the 
lights  danced,  the  walls  shuk,  the  floor  come  up,  the 
ceiliu'  come  down,  the  sky  split,  the  ground  rocked. 
Heavens  and  earth  !  creation  I  sweet  potatoes  ! 
Moses  !  Roodle-oodle-oodle-oodle — ruddle-uddle-uddle 
-uddle  — raddle-addle-addle-addle  —  riddle-iddle-iddle- 
iddle  —  reedle-eedle-eedle-eedle  p-r-r-rlang  !  bang  ! 
lang  !  perlang  !  p-r-r-r-rlang !  Bang!  I  I  With  tliat 
bang  ha  lifted  himself  bodily  into  the  air,  and  come 
down  with  his  knees,  his  ten  fingers,  his  ten  toes,  his 
elbows  and  his  nose  strikin'  every  single  solitary  key 
oil  that  pianner  at  the  same  time.  The  thing  bustiMl 
and  went  off  into  seventeen  hundred  and  iifty -seven 
thousand  five  hundred  and  forty-two  hemi-demi-semi- 
quivers,  and  I  know'd  no  more. 


NAPOLEON. 

From  the  rock  rudely  rent  by  the  billows*  commotion 
The  haunt  of  the  sea  bird  and  home  of  the  gale, 
In  gh'iy  bear  fortJi  o'er  the  waves  of  the  ocean,  ^ 
The  hero  who  spoke' and  the  nations  turned  pale.   / 
Though  hard  was  liis  fordine  and  mournful  his  story. 
His  fame  shall  beam  hi-inhier  as  tinu^  rolls  a^^■;ly, 
While  the  star,  thai  keeps  waleli  o'er  the  aha r  of  glory, 
Shall  shed  on  his  column  his  ne'er  living  ray. 


AXD    IMPERSONATIONS.  159 

Then  bear  liim  in  pride  with  his  death  mantle  o'er  him, 
And  hxy  him  to  rest  at  the  foot  of  Vendome. 
Wave  the  banners  of  nations  in  triumph  before  him, 
And  welcome  the  dust  of  the  mighty  one-iiome, 
Though  Moscow  and  Waterloo  tarnish  his  splendor. 
Still  Jena,  and  Praga  and  Lodi  remain. 
And  the  eternal  Alps'shall  forever  remember. 
How  o'er  them  'mid  tempests  he  swept  with  his  train. 

He  spoke   and   the   thrones  of  the  kingdoms   were 

shaken ; 
He  raised  his  right  arm  and  the  mightiest  quailed ; 
He  was  vanquished-^nd  far  on  a  lone  isle  forsaken  ; 
'Mid  foemen  lie  died  while  his  countrymen  wailed. 
Then  bear  him  in  pride  with  his  death  mantle  o'er  him, 
And  lay  him  to  rest  at  the  foot  of  Vendome, 
Wave  the  banners  of  nations  in  triumph  before  him, 
.And  welcome  the  dust  of  Napoleon  home. 

J^Head  of   the  army!"  he  cried  in  his   last  dying 
r  vision. 

While  fancy  his  eagles  waved  round  him  again, 
Then  passed  to  the  judgment  the  soul  of  Ambition, 
And  a  grave  held  what  Europe  could  scarcely  con- 
tain. 
Weep,  Frenchman,  in  sorrow,  who  left  him  to  perish  ! 
Weep  blood  for  the  hero  who  gave  thee  a  name  ; 
In   thy  breast   the  proud  deeds   of  the   valiant  one 

'-cherish. 
Whose  exile  forever  shall  trumpet  thy  shame. 

Then  bear  him  in  pride  with  his  death  mantle  o'er 

liim, 
And  lay  Jiim  to  rest  at  the  foot  of  Vendome, 
Wave  Austerlitz's  banner  in  triumph  before  him. 
And  welcome  this  dust  of  Napoleon  home. 
Mortality i'" frail  are  the  glories  that  linger. 
Around  tliy  brave  sons  when  the  death  pall  is  spread. 
Time,  time  rudely  blots  with  his  unsparing  finger. 
The  tablet  that  blazons  tlie  deeds  of  the  dead.      ^ 


160  HEADINGS,  liECITATIOyS, 

Then   adieu  to  the  grave  'iieatli  the  broad   Wiiviiig- 

willow, 
Adieu  to  the  prison  isle's  tempest  crowned  steeps, 
In  the  heart  of  his  country  pile  up  liis  last  pillow. 
Where  the  trophies  he  won  shall   declare  where  he- 

sleeps. 
Yes;  bear  him  in  pride  with  his  death  mantle  o'er 

him,  V 

And  lay  him  to  re«t  at  the  foot  of  Vendome, 
Where  the  soldiers  he  cherished  can  fall  down  before 

him, 
And  welcome  the  death  conquered  conqueror  home. 


THE  GOSPEL  HARPOON. 

A  sailor  who  had  just  returned  from  a  whaling- 
voyage  was  taken  by  a  friend  to  hear  an  eloquent 
preacher.  When  they  came  out  of  the  church,  the 
friend  said  :  "  Jack,  wasn't  that  a  fine  sermon  ?  " 

"Yes — it  was.  Ship-shape.  The  water  lines  were 
graceful,  the  masts  raked  just  high  enough.  Tlie 
sails  and  riggings  were  ail  right.  But  1  didn't  see  any 
harpoons.  When  a  vessel  goes  on  a  whaling  voyage, 
the  main  thing  is  to  get  the  whales.  But  they  don't 
come  to  you,  because  you  have  a  fine  ship,  you  must 
go  after  them  and  harpoon  them.  Now  it  seems  to 
me  that  a  preacher  is  a  whale  man.  He  is  sent  not 
to  interest  and  amuse  the  fish  by  sailing  among  them, 
but  to  catch  them.  Jesus  said  to  his  disciples,  '  I 
will  make  you  fishers  of  men.'  Now  how  many  ser- 
mons like  that  do  you  thinK  it  would  take  to  convict 
a  sinner  and  make  him  cry  out,  '  What  must  I  do  to 
be  saved  ? ' '' 

The  friend  said,  "But,  Jack,  people  now-a-days 
don't  like  to  be  liarpooned.  Tliey  want  to  be  interested 
intellectually  in  the  truth.  They  like  to  listen  to 
such  expositions  and  illustrations  as  the  Doctor  gave 
us  this  morning.     Did  you  not  see  how  attentive  they 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  161 

were?  Surely  it  is  a  grand  thing  to  attract  such  an 
iiudience  to  hear  the  gospel." 

"•  To  hear  about  the  gospel,  you  mean.  Now,  I  don't 
object  to  tlie  Doctor's  exposition  and  illustrations.  As 
I  said  before  they  were  all  ship-shape ;  but  the  trouble 
was,  when  we  sailed  to  the  tishing  ground,  and  the 
wliales  had  all  gracefully  come  to  the  surface,  instead 
•of  manning  the  boats  and  striking  for  a  haul,  he  made 
.a  polite  bow  and  appeared  to  say:  'I  am  very  glad 
to  see  so  many  whales.  I  must  not  do  anything  to 
hurt  or  frighten  them  ;  hope  they  will  all  admire  my 
-ship  and  come  again  on  my  next  voyage.' 

'^  Do  you  tliink  a  sliip-owner  would  send  such  a  cap- 
tain to  Behring  Sea  a  second  time  ?  Read  in  Acts 
the  report  of  Peter's  first  gospel  sermon.  He  begins 
with  an  able  exposition  of  Old  Testament  prophesies 
in  regard  to  the  incarnation  and  resurrection  of  Christ 
and  the  out-pouring  of  tlie  spirit,  and  then  when  he 
had  gained  the  attention  of  the  crowd,  he  charged 
Jiome  upon  them  with  the  words  of  Jesus,  *  whom  i/e 
have  crucified  ! '  That  was  hurling  a  harpoon.  And 
Ave  are  told  that  it  was  effective.  They  Avere  pricked 
to  their  hearts,  and  the  gospel  catch  that  day  was 
three  thousands  souls.  No,  no  !  A  sightly  ship  and 
^staunch  boat  are  well  enough  in  their  place,  but  they 
will  be  of  little  practical  value  t-o  the  gos{)el  fisher- 
man unless  he  is  liberally  supplied  with  harpoons  and 
has  the  coui'age  to  wield  them. 

"It  is  all  riglit  to  polish  3'our  harpoon,  the  more 
polish  the  better  !  But  after  all  it  is  not  the  ])olish 
but  the  harpoon  that  does  the  work.  If  the  whale- 
men fail  in  that,  the  whole  voyage  and  ventnre  is  a 
failure,  and  I  cannot  but  think  it  the  same  with  the 
preaching." — Homiletic  Review. 


162  READINGS,  liECirATIONSy 


INASMUCH. 

It  was  a  rural  school-house — old  in  sheltered  nook, 
The  time,  the  noon  recess. 

The  ruder  sex  with  ball  and  bat  and  wild  huzza, 
Sent  forth  their  boisterous  glee,  wliilst  with  an  equal 

zest, 
The  gentler  giils  their  leisure  spent  in  quiet  sports. 
From  out  the  senior  class  of  five,  four  lovely  girls, 
Who  fast  were  budding  into  woman's  fair  estate. 
Had  each  about  lier  grouped  a  knot  of  little  ones. 
Seeking  to  give  them  jo}*.  Dear  Docia  just  from  town, 
Had  brought  a  store  of  goods  to  dress  their  waxen 

dolls. 
And,  while  she  sewed  a  gown,  or  tied  a  ribbon  bow, 
No  other  drop  was  needed  in  the  cup  of  bliss, 
Full  quaffed  by  happy  hearts.     And  gieesome   Kitty 

too. 
Her  cortege  bound  with  skipping  rope  and  laughter 

loud; 
And  yet  tiieir  noisy  fun  ne'er  reached  staid  Hannah's 

ear. 
Who,  prisoned  willing  in  one  corner  of  the  yard. 
Fast  chained  her  eager  captors  with  sweet  fairy  tales. 
The  other  of  the  class  of  five,  repulsive  Kuth, 
Deformed  and  sensitive,  unloving  and  unloved. 
Sad  and  discontented  upon  the  door-sill  crouched  ; 
Her  hated  crutches  leaning  'gainst  the  outer  wall. 
Her  burning  cheek   hard  on  the   mouldy  door  frame 

pressed. 
And  scalding  tears  fast  raining  o'er  her  folded  hands. 
**  Ah  me!"  she   murmured   low,  *' h,;d  I  but   Docia's 

wealth. 
Or  Kitty's  agile  limbs  and  gushing  spirits. 
Or  Orace's  beauty  fair,  or  Hannah's  unexliansted  store 
(^f  elfin  love,  I  too  miglit  win  from  chihlish  hearts, 
Sonnj  boon  of  love  to  gihl  with  warmth  my  frozen  life, 
'Tis  seltisli  craving  lovo  without  the  giving  love, 
For  teacher  often  says — and  he's  always  right — 


AND  niPERSONATIONS.  163 

'  This  sell  must  surely  love  itself  in  others'  weal, 

If  we  would  win  affections  great,  or  love  would  feel.' 

Kut  what  can  Ruth,  the  cripple,  do,  save  weep  the  fate 

That  made  her  so  ?  Ah,  me  !  " 

A  scream,  then  a  smothered  sob,  here 

jjroke  the  murmurs,  and  there  came  a  whisper  low. 

*'  Please  may  I  sit  upon  the  step,  and  let  you  try 

To  pull  this  briar  from  my  foot?     I  will  not  cry." 

*'This  once,  I'll  try,"   thought  Ruth,  "  what  loving 

deeds  can  do. 
I  will  not  pluck  the  thorn,  then  coldly  push  her  off. 
But  will  to  little  motherless  outcast  soft  caresses  give  : 
Perhaps,  though  love  may  not  be  shed  on  crippled 

form 
A  cripple's  heart  may  have  the  Master's  smile." 
She  softly  raised  the  sobbing  child ; 
And  from  her  swollen  foot  the  piercing  briar  drew. 
And  as  she  kissed  the  pearl  drops  from  the  pallid  face, 
An  unknown  joy  through  all  her  inner  being  thrilled. 
Ere  long  the  weary  sufferer,  eased  from  pain  slept 

deep, 
While  Ruth,  her  face  aglow,  bent  watching  o'er  her 

dreams. 
And  when  at  last  the  child  grew  restless  in  her  sleep, 
A  loving  kiss  on  sun-brown  cheek  was  laid. 
She  dreamed — then  woke. 

''  Dear  Ruth,  I've  been  to  heaven — to  mother's  home, 
And  oh!  she  was  so  glad  her  little  girl  had  come. 
I  thought  that  in  that  joyous  place,  Elysium  fair, 
Our  teacher  dear,  and  all  who  loved  on  earth,  were 

there, 
*  Bring  forth  a  crown,  my  child  has  loved  and  did  not 

hate,' 
My  mother  quickly  said. 

But  when  an  angel  brought  it  me,  composed  of  jew- 
els rare, 
My  head  so  small,  its  heavy  weight,  I  could  not  bear. 
Our  teacher's  noble  brow,  then  sure  I  thought,  is 

strong 
To  bear  my  diadem — I  once  again  was  wrong: 


164  BEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

For  'niong  the     many   lesser  crowns  he  wore  with 

grace 
My  larger  jewels  seemed  to  sparkle  out  of  place. 
Then,  when  perplexed,  the  angel  knew  not  what  to 

do, 
J  thought  that  Jesus  sweetly  smiled  and  looked  at 

And,  Ruth,  near  by  the  throne  we  saw  you  standmg 

bright, 
Leant  on  your  crutches  grown  to  amber  light. 
The  angels  woke  me  shouting  praise  for  trials  given. 
That  made  you  strong  to  wear  a  Roj^al  crown    ia 

heaven." 

Tlie  noon  now  passed — the  teacher  came; 
With  joy  he  saw  the  ])auper  child  contented  lie 
In  Ruth's  embrace. 

Mis  hand  lie  fondly  laid  in  blessing  on  her  head, 
Whispering  soft:  "  Inasmuch  as  you  liave  done  it 
Unto  this  my  lamb,  so  have  you  done  it  unto  me." 
With  happy  heart  Ruth  lowly  bent  above  her  book, 
Rejoicing  much.     The  teacher   watched  the  sea  shell 

flush 
That  n^antled  o'er  her  cheek,  and  ever  as  she  raised 
Her  calm,  clear  eyes  of  gentian   blue,  then  let  them 

droop, 
He  fully  read  the  echo  of  her  beating  heart; 
For  thus  that  echo  rose  and  wildly  swelled,  till,  lost 
In  love,  it  broke,  and  then  exultant  died  away. 
"Ah  me! 
Can  I  who  late 
Fain  would  no  comfort  see. 
Save   in   an   ever  present   hate, 
Now  wide  unto  my  Master's  ''Inasmuch"  expand 
Till  I  can  grateful  see  a  Father's  hand 
In  every  stripe  he  loving  deals, 
And   love    without    alloy 
In  the  rod  he  wields  ? 
Oh  joy !  " 

Mart/  Glen, 


AiYJ)  iMrKi:soN Alloys.  i(i5 


A  KING  AMONG  MEN. 

You  may  talk  of  your  empei-ors,  poets,  and  seers,- 
You  niny  speak  of  your  palaces,  [>rinees,  and  peers, 
But  a  tlienie  far  more  loyal  shall  quicken  luy  pen  : 
I  sing"  of  iny  father — a  king  among  men. 
His  voice  is  as  clear  as  the  music  of  rills, 
And  his  foot  tlie  bright  dew  dashes  off  from  the  hills, 
And  liis  eye,  like  a  lion's,  deep  hid  in  its  den, 
Gleams  steadfast  and  true — he's  a  king  among  men. 
His  brow  is  like  marble — clean  sculptured  and  bright, 
In   his  hair,  like   the   raven's,  gleam  stray  locks   of 

white  ; 
Though  his  hands  may  be  trembling  and  weary — 

what  then  ? 
I  hail  him  a  monarch — this  king  among  men. 
And  his  heart — you  could  never  all  day  in  the  street 
Find  one  that  was  truer— mo i-e  patiently  beat — 
He's  a  theme  that  would  quicken  a  livelier  pen, 
Oh  !  would  I  could  show  you— this  king  among  men. 
"What  makes  him  a  king?"  you   may  slightingly 

"'Tisnot  broadcloth  and   velvet,"   I'm  proud  to  re- 

"  'Tis  nobleness  inborn — true  manhood — so  then 
I  mean  what  I  say  of  this  king  among  men. 
I've  a  fancy — 'tis  simple— but  yet  let  me  own 
That  when  the  gates  open  that  lead  to  the  throne, 
Heaven's  light  on  his  brow,  I  may  see  liim  again,^^ 
And  cry  with  the  angels :  "  A  king  among  men." 

Harriet  M.  Spalding, 

ELSIE'S  THANKSGIVING. 

Dolly,   it's   almost    Thanksgiving.     Do    you    know 

what  I  mean,  my  dear? 
No?     Well,  r  couldn't  expect  it;  you   haven't  been 

with  us  a  vear. 


166  UK  A  Dl  yes,  UKCITAriONS, 

And  you  came  willi  my  auntie  from  Paris,  far  over 

tiio  wide  blue  sea, 
And  you'll  keei)  your  first  Thauksgiving,  my  beauti 

ful  Doliy,  wiih  me. 

I'll  tell  you  about  it,  my  darling,  for  grandma's  ex- 

plaiued  it  all, 
So    that   I    understand    why    Thanksgiving   always 

comes  late  in  the  fall, 
When  the  nuts  and  the  apples  are  gathered,  and  the 

work  in  the  fields  is  done, 
And  the  fields,  all  reaped  and  silent,  are  asleep  in 

the  autumn  sun. 

It  is  then  that  we  praise  our  Father,  who  sends  the 

rain  and  the  dew. 
Whose  wonderful  loviug-kindness  is  every  morning 

new ; 
Unless  we'd  be  heathen,  Dolly,  or  worse,  we  must 

sing  and  pray, 
And  thiuk  about  good  things,  Dolly,  when  we  keep 

Thanksgiving  Day. 

But  I  like  it  very  much  better  when  from  church 

we  all  go  home. 
And  the  married  brothers  and  sisters  and  the  troops 

of  cousins  come. 
And  we're  ever  so  long  at  the  table,  and  dance  and 

shout  and  play 
In  the  merry  evening, Dolly,  that  ends  Thanksgiving 

Day. 

Now,  let  me  whisper  a  secret:  I've  had  a  trouble  to 

bear ; 
It  made  me  feel  quite  old,  dear,  and  perfectly  crushed 

with  care ; 
'Twas  about  my  prettiest  kitten,  tne  whike  one  with 

spots  of  black — 
J   loved   her  devotedly,  Dolly;    I've  been   awfully 

angiy  with  Jack  ; 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  167 

So  mad  that  I  couldn't  forgive  liim  ;  niid  I  wouldn't 

kiss  him  good-night, 
For  he  lost  mv  kitty  on  purpose,  shut  up  in  n.  bag  so 

tight ;  "^ 
He  carried  lier  miles  and   miles,  dear,  and   dropped 

her  down  in  the  dark; 
I  would  not  Avonder  a  bit,  dear,  it  he   took  her  to 
Central  Park. 

And  then  he  came  home  to  supper,  as  proud  as  a  boy 

could  be  ; 
I  wonder,  Dolly,  this  minute,  how  he  dared  to  be 

looking  at  me, 
When  I  called  my  kitty  and  called  her,  and  of  course 

she  didn't  come. 
And  Jack  pored  over  his  Latin  as  if  he  were  deaf 

and  dumb. 

AVhen  I  found  out  what  he  had  done,  dear,  it  was 
just  like  lead  in  my  heart. 

Thougli  mamma  is  as  kind  as  an  angel,  I  knew  she 
would  take  his  part. 

Suppose  kitty  did  chase  the  chickens,  they  might 
have  kept  out  of  her  way ; 

I've  been  so  sorrowful,  Dolly,  I've  dreaded  Thanks- 
giving Day. 

For  ril  never  pretend  to  be  good,  dear,  Avhen  I  feel 
all  wrong  in  my  mind  ; 

And  as  for  giving  up  kitty,  I'm  not  in  the  least  re- 
signed. 

And  I've  known  with  deep  grief,  Dolly — known  it  a 
long  time  back — 

That  I  couldn't  keep  Thanksgiving  while  I  hated  my 
brother  Jack. 

For  you  cannot  love  God  and  praise  him  when  you 

are  cherishing  anger  this  way, 
I've  tried  hard  to  conquer  it,  Dolly — I  gave  Jack  two 

pears  to-day ; 


JG8  l.'KADJSas^   liECITATlONS, 

Tve  nieiuled  liis  mittens  for  him — wiiy,  who  is  tnis 

ciec[)iiif|f  ill  ? 
Why  ii's  surely  my  own   white   kitten,  so  tired  and 

grimed  and  thin  ! 

And    now    we   will  keep   Tlianksgivinrr,   Dolly  and 

kitty  and  I ; 
ril  go  to  ehurch    in   the  morning;   I'm   so  glad    I'm 

afraid  I'll  cry. 
O  kitty!  my  lost,  lost  treasure,  you  have  fonnd  your 

own  way  back, 
And  now  I'll  forget  my  troubles,  and  be  friends  again 

with  tfack. 

Margaret  E.  Sangster. 


THE  GRAVEYARD  OF  THE  AGES. 

The  nineteentli  century  is  the  lieir  of  all  the  ages; 
our  inheritance  the  riches  of  every  century;  our 
legacy  the  fruits  of  every  cycle. 

Thougiits  are  the  pioneers  of  civilization.  Em- 
pires that  rise,  and  institutions  that  rule  are  bnt  the 
lengthened  shadows  of  individual  minds  walking  be- 
fore the  sun  of  immortal  glory. 

American  progress  is  the  result  of  the  evolution  of 
six  thousand  years — the  last  and  golden  link  in  the 
chain  of  cause  and  effect,  whose  outer  ends  bind  us 
fast  to  creation's  throne.  The  framework  of  our  coun- 
try is  built  from  the  ruins  of  a  dozen  empires.  The 
fabric  of  our  society  is  wcn^Mi  from  the  scattered 
thrcj^dsof  tlie  exi)erience  of  six  hundred  centennials. 
Well  may  we  ]u-oslrate  ourselves  befoie  the  goddess 
of  liberty.  Well  may  we  bow  in  adoratio  at  the 
altai'  of  Columl)ia — ''Queen  (»f  the  world,  and  cldld 
of  the  skies,"  for  every  gem  that  sparkles  on  her 
brow  was  once  enshrined  in  the  diadem  of  Minerva 
or  sparkled  on  the  bosom  of  Clio. 

Man  is  a  creature  of  contradictions.     Life  and  death 


ANB  IMPERSONATIONS.  169 

lock  arms  in  love.  In  every  human  breast  two 
opposite  desires  are  striving  for  mastery.  Hope,  gay 
goddess  of  the  future,  stands  beside  restless  aml)ition 
pointing  to  the  golden  future  of  the  west  and  the 
possibilities  of  life.  Memory,  (ilothed  in  sable  robes, 
silently  sits  beside  some  new-made  grave,  dreaming 
of  the  days  that  are  gone. 

The  Graveyard  of  the  Ages !  'Tis  tlie  Niobe  of 
nations  ;  the  Arcana  of  time  ;  the  Delphi  of  the 
world  ;  the  sacred  spot  where  secret  sorrow  mourns 
over  the  mistakes  of  life,  and  spirit  meets  spirit  in 
sweet  and  solemn  thought. 

Ever}^  age  is  a  volume,  written  by  time  and  dedi- 
cated to  man.  The  centuries  are  its  chapters,  the 
seasons  its  pages.  Its  lines  are  traced  with  human 
blood;  its  leaves  are  stained  Avith  human  tears. 
Every  lesson  the  past  has  taught  has  cost  a  life, 
Every  experiment  is  supplemented  with  sorrow. 
Every  wieck  upon  the  shoals  of  time  is  a  lighthouse 
to  some  future  sailor.  The  ruins  of  cities  are  the 
silent  admonitions  of  death,  the  remains  of  nations — 
warning  voices  speaking  from  the  grave. 

Tell  me,  thou  reverend  chronicler  of  the  grave,  can 
all  the  illusions  of  ambition  be  realized?  Can  the 
wealth  of  commerce  secure  to  nations  the  permanence 
of  its  possession  ?  Alas,  Thebes  thought  so  once,  yet 
her  hundred  gates  have  crumbled.  So  thought  the 
Athenians  and  the  Spartans :  yet  the  dust  of  Leoni- 
das  is  trampled  by  the  cringing  slave.  Though  Phid- 
ias cut  his  name  on  the  shield  of  Minerva,  and 
Byron  left  his  inscription  on  the  shield  of  Apollo, 
millions  of  men,  who  were  good  and  great,  have  gone 
back  ao;ain  into  the  tongrueless  silence  of  the  dream- 
less  dust,  where  scathing  sorrow  nor  anxious  care 
never  more  can  break  their  peaceful  sleep. 
.  Dreamer  among  the  possibilities  of  life,  do  you 
ever  grow  weary  waiting  for  fortune  to  lift  you  upon 
the  pedestal  of  prominence?  For  untold  ages  the 
New  World,  impatient,  lay  hidden  behind  the  veil 
creation  dropped,  till  time  proudly  lifted  the  curtain, 


170 


RKADINGS,  HECITA  TIONS, 


ill  id  I  lie  Old  World  gazed  in   silent  awe   upon  her 
beauleous  sister  world. 

Do  you  ever  grow  tired  of  the  dry  routine  of  life? 
Every  age  teaclies  some  new  lesson,  every  season 
brings  some  new  sorrow,  every  June  some  new  joy. 
Age  on  age  rolls  silently  away,  llumanity  lives  and 
loves  and  dies.  Yet  Time — ''Time,  the  tomb-builder, 
holds  his  fierce  career — and  pauses  not,  like  other 
conquerors,  to  muse  upon  the  fearful  ruins  he  hath 

Wl'OUgllt." 

Soon  our  own  loved  land  shall  go  to  join  the  sister- 
hood of  nations  in  the  Graveyard  of  the  Ages, 
America,  where  persecuted  liberty  found  a  peaceful 
home,  and  free  institutions  flourished  unmolested  I 
Oh,  thou  child  of  time  I  prodigy  of  the  Ages!  Bethle- 
hem's Star  of  the  West!  loving  lips  breatlie  benisons 
on  thy  life,  devoted  hands  wait  ready  to  defend,  and 
young  ambition  registers  a  solemn  vow  that  ihoushalt 
not  be  forgotten  till  memory's  chain  lies  broken  in 
the  dust,  and  hearts  no  longer  love. —  Wilhelnu 


.':% 


MRS.  LEO  HUNTER. 


One  morning,  Sam  Weller  handed  Mr.  Pickwick 
a  card  bearing  the  following  inscription  : 


Mrs.  Lko  IIuxtkr. 

TI;e  Den, 

EatonswilL 


"  Person's  a-waitin',"  he  said. 
''Does  the  person  want  me,  Sam  ?  "  inquired  Mi 
Pickwick. 


AND  I M PERSON ATIONS.  171 

"  He  wants  you  partickler,  an'  no  one  else'll  do." 

"  But  this  is  a  lady's  card." 

"  Given  me  by  a  gen'i'm'n,  liows'ever,  an'  he's 
a-waitin'  in  the  drawin'-room." 

Mr.  Pickwick  hastened  to  the  drawing-room,  where 
sat  a  grave  man,  who  started  up  on  his  entrance,  and 
said,  with  an  air  of  profound  respect,  "Mr.  Pickwick, 
I  presume  ?  " 

"  The  same." 

"  Allow  me,  sir,  the  honor  of  grasping  your  hand — 
permit  me,  sir,  if  you  will,  to  shake  it." 

"  Certainly." 

"  We  have  heard  of  your  fame,  sir.  The  noise  of 
your  antiquarian  discussion  has  reached  tiie  ears  of 
Mrs.  Leo  Hunter — my  wife,  sir;  1  am  Mr.  Leo  Hun- 
ter." The  stranger  paused,  as  if  lie  expected  that 
Mr.  Pickwick  would  be  overcome  by  tlie  disclosure  ; 
but,  seeing  that  he  remained  perfectly  calm,  pro- 
ceeded— "My  wife,  sir,  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter,  is  proud  to 
number  among  her  acquaintance  nil  those  who  have 
rendered  themselves  celebrated  by  their  works  and 
talents.  Permit  me,  sir,  to  place  in  a  conspicuous 
part  of  the  list,  tijo  name  of  Mr.  Pickwick  and  his 
brother  members  of  tlie  club  that  derives  its  name 
from  him." 

"I  shall  be  extremely  happy  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  sucli  a  lady,  sir." 

"You  shall  make  it,  sir.  To-morrow  moining,  sir, 
we  give  a  public  breakfast — a  fete  champStre — to  a 
great  number  of  those  who  have  rendered  tliemselves 
celebrated  by  their  works  and  taleiits.  Permit  Mrs. 
Leo  Hunter,  sir,  to  have  the  gratification  of  seeing 
you  at  the  Den." 

"  Willi  great  pleasure." 

"  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  has  many  of  these  breakfasts, 
sir ;  '  feasts  of  reason,'  sir,  and  '  flows  of  sotil,'  as  some 
one  who  wrote  a  sonnet  to  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  feelingly 
and  originally  observed." 

"Was  he  celebrated  for  his  works  and  talents?" 

"  He  was,  sir  ;  all  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter's  acquaintance 


172  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

are  ;  it  is  her  ambition,  sir,  to  have  no  other  acquaint- 
ance." 

'*  It  is  a  very  noble  ambition." 

"  When  I  inform  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  that  that  remark 
fell  from  j/our  lips,  sir,  she  will,  indeed,  be  proud. 
You  have  a  gentleman  in  your  train,  I  think,  sir,  who 
has  j^ioduced  some  beautiful  little  poems." 

'*  My  friend,  Mr.  Snodgrass,  has  a  great  taste  for 
poetry." 

*'So  has  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter,  sir.  Slie  dotes  on 
poetry.  Slie  adores  it.  I  may  say  that  hei-  whole 
soul  and  mind  are  wound  up  and  entwined  with  it. 
She  has  produced  some  delightful  pieces  herself,  sir. 
You  mav  have  met  with  her  *  Ode  to  an  Expiring 
Frog.'"" 

-'  I  don't  think  I  have." 

"  You  astonish  me,  sir ;  it  created  an  immense 
sensation.  It  was  signed  with  an  'L'  and  eight 
stars,  ami  appeared  in  a  lady's  magazine.  It  com- 
mences— 

"'Can  I  view  thee  panting,  lying 
On  thy  stomacli,  without  sighing — 
Can  I,  unmoved,  see  thee  dying 

Oil  a  log, 

Ex[)iring  frog?  '  " 

*'  Beautiful  I"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 
"  Fine,"  said  Mr.  Leo  Hunter  ;  "'  so  simple  !  " 
-  Very." 

''  The  next  verse  is  still  more  touching.  Shall  I 
repeat  it?" 

*'  Jf  you  please.'* 

"  '  Say,  liave  fiends,  in  shapes  of  bo3''S, 
With  wild  halloo  and  brutal  noise, 
Hunted  thee  from  marshy  joys, 
Witli  a  dog. 
Expiring  frog? '  '* 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS,  173 

"  Finely  expressed,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick. 

"All  point,  sir,  all  point;  but  you  shall  hear  Mrs. 
Leo  Hunter  repeat  it.  She  can  do  justice  to  it,  sir." 
— Charles  Dickens, 


THE  ELF-CHILD. 

Little  Orphant  Annie's  come  to  our  house  to  stay, 
An*  wash   the  cups  an'  saucers    up,  an'  brush    the 

cvumbs  awa}^ 
An'  shoo  the  cliickens  off  the  porch,  an'  dust  the 

hearth  an'  sweep, 
An'  make  the  lire,  an*  bake  the  bread,  an'  earn  licr 

boiird  an'  keej)  ; 
An'  all  us  other  chiklren,  when  the  supper  things  is 

done, 
We  set  around  the  kitchen  fire  an'  has  the  mostest 

fun 
A-list'nin'  to  the  witch  tales  'at  Annie  tells  about, 
An'  the  gobble-uns  'at  gits  you  ef  you  don't  watch 

out! 

Onct    they    was    a    little    boy,   wouldn't    say   his 

pray'rs— 
An'  when  he  went  to  bed  at  night,  away  upstairs, 
His  mamma  heerd  him  holler,  an'  his  daddy  heerd  him 

bawl. 
An'  when  they  turn't  the  kivvers  down  he  wasn't 

there  at  all ! 
An'  they  seeked  him  in  the  rafter-room,  an'  cubby- 
hole an'  press. 
An'  seeked  him  up  the  chimney-flue,  an'  everj^wheres, 

I  guess. 
But  all  they    ever  found    was   thist   his  pants    an' 

roundabout ! 
An'    the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you  ef  you  don't  waich. 

out  ! 


174  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

An'  one  time  a  little  girl  'ud  alius  laugh  au'  grin, 
An'  make  fun  of  ever'  one  an'  all  her  blood-an-kin, 
An'  onct,  wlien  there  *'  was  company,"  an'  ole  folks 

was  there. 
She  mocked  'em  an'  shocked  'em,  an'  said  she  didn't 

care  I 
An'  thist  as  she  kicked  her  heels,  an'  turnttorun  an' 

liide, 
They  was  two  great,  big.  Black  Things  a-standin'  by 

her  side, 
An'  they  snatched  her  through  the  ceilin'  'fore  she 

knowed  what  she's  about ! 
An'  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you  ef  you  don't  watch  out  I 

An'  little  Orphant  Annie  says  when  the  blaze  is  blue. 
An'    the    lamp   wick   sputters,    an'    the    wind   goes 

woo-oo  ! 
An'   you   hear   the  crickets  quit,   an'   the  moon  is 

An'  the  lightnin'  bugs  in  dew  is  all  squenched  away — 
You  better   mind  your   parents,  an'  your  teachers, 

fond  an'  dear, 
An'  cherish  them  'at  loves  you,  an'  dry  the  orphant'a 

tear. 
An'  he'p  the  po'  an'  needy  ones  'at  clusters  all  about, 
Er  the  gobble-uns  '11  git  you  ef  you  don't  watch  out  I 

James  Whitcomh  Riley, 

By  permission  of  the  Bowen-Merrlll  Pub.  Co.,  Indianapolis. 


MACBETH  AND  THE  DAGGER. 

Is  til  is  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me. 
The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?  •  •  •  •  Come,  let  me  clutch 
thee  ;  •  •  •  • 

T  liave  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still 

Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible  ** 

To  feeling  as  to  sight?  ....  Or  art  thou  but 
A  (bigger  of  the  mind,  ....  a  false  creation, 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  175 

Proceeding  from  the  lieut-oppressed  biain  ? .  .  .  . 

I  see  tlieo  yet,  in  form  as  })a]paUe 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Tliou  marshal'stme  the  way  that  1  was  going; 
And  such  an  instrument  1  was  to  use. 
Mine  eyes  are  made  tlie  fools  o'  the  other  senses 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest 

I  see  thee  still ; 
And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  gouts  of  blood, 

Which  was  not  so  before 

There's  no  such  thing : 
It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs 
Thus  to  mine  eyes.  .  .  .  Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtain'd  sleeper ;  ....  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hecate's  offerings;  and  wither'd  murder,  .  . 
Alarum'd  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Wiiose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,  toward  liis  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost 

Thou  sure  and  firm  set  earth. 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout. 
And  take  the  present  liorror  from  the  time, 

Which  now  suits  with  it Whiles  I  threat,  he  lives. 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cold  breath  gives. 

[A  hell  rings. 
J  go  .  .  .  and  it  is  done.     The  bell  invites  me  .... 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan  :  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  ...  to  heaven  ...  or  to  hell. 

Shakespeare* 


HAMLET. 

Hamlet !  Wonderful  art  of  the  magician  !  To 
sway  with  a  shadow  a  shadow's  love,  a  shadow's  grief, 
a  shadow's  intellect  and  the  madness  of  a  shade  !  To 
make  this  phantasm  not  only  what  it  is  as  such,  but 
to  make  its  phantom  mind  a  problem  forever.     P'or 


176  HEADINGS,  li  EC  IT  AT  IONS, 

this  Hamlet  never  was.  The  past  held  hiin  not  nor 
shall  we  meet  him  "in  the  court  of  heaven."  lie 
mouldered  with  the  creative  brain  under  the  chancel 
of  Stratford  Churcli. 

But,  after  all,  is  he  unreal  ?  What  is  reality  in  such 
cases  !  The  fleshliest  incubus  is  real :  the  grossest 
prince  who  lives  and  dies  is  an  actual  being.  But  for 
this  earth  his  reality  ends  with  his  death.  Seldom 
does  a  vibration  from  him  reach  beyond  his  genera- 
tion. A  few  years  and  no  one  hears  liim.  As  well 
lay  the  ear  over  liis  grave  to  listen  for  his  soliloquies. 

Not  so  i\\\^  ideal  prince.  He  stands  apparelled  in 
imperial  robes — not  a  statue — but  one  of  each  succes- 
sive generation;  not  shunned  like  the  Wandering  Jew, 
but  loved  and  obeyed  and  pitied.  He  has  no  succes- 
sor. His  kingdom  widens  as  years  go  on.  He  sets 
up  his  monarcliy  in  empires  and  republics  alike  ;  in 
Indian  cities  to  survive  their  gods ;  in  Australasian 
continents  and  islands.  Ships  gliding  over  lonely 
seas  hold  him.  He  sways  the  mind  in  the  long  win- 
ter of  Arctic  horror  and  in  African  deserts. 

Is  he  not  then  a  most  enduring  reality  ?  No  other 
character  in  literature  has  this  omnipresence  and  im- 
mortality. Why  is  this  so?  It  is  because  "  Hamlet" 
is  man,  and  he  is  every  man.  He  is  kept  alive  by  all 
men,  by  that  self-love  and  recognition  whicli  yearns 
for  and  claims  imniortality  as  the  lieritage  of  every 
human  soul.  We  see  in  him  our  inmost  parts,  our 
most  evanescent  spiritualism  ;  our  most  enduring 
attributes.  He  is  our  life.  We  come  face  to  face 
with  life.  There  it  is  all  stretclied  before  us,  so 
beautiful  to  see  that  we  cannot  think  it  has  an  end. 
From  the  very  dew  and  flowers  of  spring  exhales  a 
poison  which  blasts  us  forever. 

Our  grejit  purposes  are  beaten  down  by  some 
malign  force;  our  wills  become  infirm;  \yq  resolve 
that  we  will  act  the  i)art  of  men,  but  fail  to  do  it — 
and  we  are  *'  Hamlet."  » 

We  are  snatched  up  from  the  accordant  masses  of 
humanity,  and  are  hurried  to  and  fro  as  if  the  powers 


AND  IMPERSOIiATIONS.  11 J 

of  the  air  were  making  their  devilish  sport  \-.,'^h  us 
in  the  coldest  regions  of  outer  darkness — and  we  are 
"  Hamlet." 

Love,  Paphian  at  once  and  pure,  comes  toward  us 
like  a  dawn,  garlanded  and  bearing  wreaths  of  all  the 
iiowers.  But  her  face  wans,  her  mind  fades  darkling 
away  ;  the  flowers  fade,  and  she  hands  us  fennel  and 
rue :  rosemaries  for  remembrance,  and  pansies  for 
thought — all  withered,  and  we  are  "  Hamlet." 

And  then  we  change.  Melancliol y  claims  us.  We 
make  delusions  our  familiars,  and  our  home  is  dark- 
ness. Life  ends  with  no  purpose  accomplished — our- 
selves a  riddle — and  we  are  '*  Hamlet"  to  the  grave. 
— Ex'Gov.  Davis  of  Minnesota, 


MIRACLES. 

"  An  Qgg  a  chicken  !  don't  tell  me  ! 
For  didn't  I  break  an  eg^  to  see  ? 
There  was  nothing  inside  but  a  yellow  ball 
With  a  bit  of  mucilage  round  it  all. 
Neither  beak  nor  bill,  nor  toe,  nor  quill, 
Not  even  a  feather  to  hold  it  together; 
Not  a  sign  of  life  could  any  one  see. 
An  e^g  a  chicken  !  You  can't  fool  me  ! 


"An  eg^  a  chicken  !  Didn't  1  pick  up  the  shell 

That  had  lield  the  chick,  so  they  said? 

And  didn't  I  work  half  a  day 

To  pack  him  in  where  lie  wouldn't  stny  ? 

Let  me  try  as  I  please  with  squeeze  upon  squeeze  ; 

There  is  scarce  space  to  meet  Ins  head  and  his  feet, 

No  room  for  any  of  the  rest  of  him,  so — 

That  efTfT  never  held  that  chicken,  I  know 


»   75 


Mamma,  lieard  the  logic  oi  lier  little  man, 
Felt  his  trouble  and  lielped  him  as  motliers  can, 

12 


178  READINGS,  11  EC  ir AT  IONS, 

Took  an  egg  from  the  nest — it  was  smooth  and  round, 
"Now,  my   boy,  can  you  tell  me   what  makes  ihis 

sound  ?  '' 
Faint   and   low — "tap,    tap;"  soft  and  slow,  "  rap, 

Sharp  and  quick  like  a  prisoner's  pick, 

"Hear  it  peep  inside  there,"  cried  Tom  with  aslioat. 

"  How  did  it  get  in,  and  how  can  it  get  out  ?" 

Tom  was  eager  to  help — he  would  break  tlie  shell. 
Mamma  smiled  "All's  well  that  ends  well, 
Be  patient  a  while  yet,  my  boy,"  "  click — click," 
And  out  popped  the  head  of  a  dear  little  chick. 
No  room  had  it  lacked,  though  snug  was  it  packed, 
There  it  was  all  complete,  from  its  head  to  its  feet. 
The  softest  of  down  and  the  brightest  of  eyes. 
And  so  big,  why  the  shell  Avasn't  half  its  size. 

Tom  gave  a  long  whistle — "Mamma,  now  1  see 
That  an  egg  is  a  ciiicken  !  tliough  the  how  beats  me. 
An  egg  isn't  a  chicken,  that  I  know  and  declare. 
Yet  an  egg  is  a  chicken,  see  the  proof  of  it  there! 
Nobody  can  tell  how  it  came  in  the  shell ; 
Once  out  all  in  vain  to  pack  it  in  again, 
I  think  'tis  a  miracle,  mamma  mine, 
As  much  as  that  of  the  water  and  wine." 

Mamma  kissed  her  little  boy,  "  It  niiiy  be 

That  we  try  too  much  leasnning,  you  and  I, 

Yes,  there  are   miracles  wrought  ever}'  day  for  our 

eyes, 
Tliat  we  see  without  seeing  or  feeling  surprise. 
And  we  must  take  on   trust   what   we   can    not  ex- 
plain. 
From  the  flower  to  the  seed  :  from  the  seed  to  the 

flower, 
'Tis  a  world  of  miracles  every  hour. 


AND  iMrj-u>ow.iiioy:s.  17S 


THE  BATTLE. 


Heavy  and  solemn,  a  cloud}^  coUinin  ! 
Through  the  green  plain  they  marching  came. 
Measnreless  spread,  like  a  table  dread, 
For  the  wild  grim  dice  of  the  iron  game. 
Looks  are  bent  on  the  shaking  ground, 
Hearts  beat  low  with  a  knelling  sound; 
Swift  by  the  breasts  that  must  bear  the  brunt 
Gallops  the  major  along  the  front  ; 

-Haiti'' 
And  fettered  they  stand  at  the  stark  command, 
And  the  warriors,  silent,  halt  I 

Proud  ill  the  blush  of  morning  glowing, 

What  on  the  hill-top  shines  in  now'iug? 

"See  you  the  foeman's  banners  waving?  " 

"  We  see  the  foeman's  banners  waving !  " 

*'  God  be  with  you,  children,  and  wife !  '* 

Hark  to  tlie  music — tlie  drum  and  fife — 

How  they  ring  through  the  ranks  which  they  rouse 

to  tlie  strife  ! 
Thrilling  they  sound  with  their  glorious  tone. 
Thrilling  they  go  through  the  marrow  and  bone! 
"  Brothers,  Crod  grant  when  this  life  is  o'er. 
In  the  life  to  come  that  tve  meet  once  riore  !  " 

See  the  smoke,  how  the  lightning  is  cleaving  asunder  ! 
Hark  !  the  guns,  peal  on  peal,  how  they  boom  in  their 

thunder ! 
From  host  to  host,  with  kindling  sound, 
The  shouting  signal  circles  round ; 
Ay,  shout  it  forth  to  life  or  death, 
Freer  aliead}^  bi'eathes  the  breath  ! 
The  war  is  waofinfj,  slauofliter  raofinof 
And  heavy  through  the  reeking  pall 

The  iron  death-dice  fall ! 
Nearer  the}^  close,  foes  upon  foes. 
"  Ready  !  "  from  square  to  square  it  goes. 


180  E FADINGS,  BECITATIONS, 

They  kneel  as  one  man,  from  flank  to  flank, 
And  the  fire  comes  sharp  from  the  foremost  rank. 
Many  a  soldier  to  earth  is  sent, 
Miiny  a  gap  by  the  balls  is  rent ; 
O'er  the  corse  before  springs  tlie  hinder  man, 
That  the  line  may  not  fail  to  the  fearless  van. 
To  the  right,  to  the  left,  and  around  and  around, 
Death  whirls  in  its  dance  on  the  bloody  ground. 
God's  sunlight  is  quenched  in  the  fiery  fight. 
Over  the  host  falls  a  brooding  night ! 
Brothers^  God  grants  when  this  life  is  o'er^ 
In  the  life  to  come  that  we  meet  once  7nore  ! 

The  dead  men  lie  bathed  in  the  weltering  blood, 
And  tlie  living  are  blent  in  the  slippery  flood. 
And  the  feet,  as  they  reeling  and  sliding  go. 
Stumble  still  on  the  corses  that  sleep  below. 
"What!  Francis!"    "Give  Charlotte  mv  last  fare- 
well." 
As  the  dying  man  murmurs,  the  thunders  swell. 

"  I'll  give — O  God  !  are  their  guns  so  near  ? 
Ho,    comrades  ! — yon    volley  ! — look   sharp   to   the 

rear ! — 
ril  give  thy  Charlotte  thy  last  farewell ; 
Sleep  soft !  where  death  thickest  descendeth  in  rain, 
The  friend  thon  forsakest  thy  side  may  regain!" 
Hitherward,  thitherward,  reels  the  fight, 
Dark  and  moif  darklv  dav  olooms  into  nigrht; 
Brother.^,  Gori  (/rant,  irlwri  this  life  is  o'er. 
In  the  life  to  <-onu'  ihut  in-  meet  once  more! 

Hark  l«>  the  iioofs  ih;it  galloping  go  ! 

The  adjutants  ilying ! 
Tlie  horsemen  press  hard  on  the  panting  foe, 

I'iieir  thunder  booms,  in  dying — 
Victory  ! 
Terror  has  seized  on  the  dastards  all. 
And  their  colors  fall ! 

Victory ! 
Clos(;d  is  I  he  biinit  of  the  glorious  fight; 
And  the  iImv,  lik(i  a  conqueror,  bursts  on  the  night. 


A  ND  IM 1  'E  LI  .s  O  A  .1  Ti  02s  S.  181 

Trumpet  and  fife  swelling  choral  along, 
The  triumph  already  sweeps  marching  in  song. 
Farewell^  fallen  brothers  ;  though  this  life  he  o'er, 
There^s  another  in  which  we  shall  meet  you  once  more  ! 

Schiller, 


MANSIE  WAUCH  AT  THE  PLAY. 

{Prize  Becitation  at  the  North  Mo.  State  Normal,  June,  1889.) 

Mony  a  time  an'  often  had  I  heard  o'  play-actin' 
an'  o'  players  makin'  themselves  kings  and  queens, 
an'  sayin'  a  great  many  wonderfu'  things,  but  I  had 
never  before  an  opportunity  o'  witnessin'  tlie  truth 
o'  these  hearsays.  SoMaister  Glen  an'  I  determined 
to  run  the  risk  o'  our  minister's  rebuke  for  the  trans- 
gression, liopin'  it  would  make  na  lastiu'  impression 
on  his  mind,  paid  oor  money  at  the  door  and  were 
soon  inside  the  [)layhouse.  Never,  wiiile  I  live  an' 
breathe,  will  I  f()rget  wliat  we  henrd  and  saw  tliat 
nicht!  The  phice  w;is  crowded  to  the  e'e,  and  licht 
to  tlie  foreliand  u'  us  w;is  a  larj^e  gieen  curtain.  Just 
in  front  o'  it  were  eiohtor  ten  penny  candles  stuck  in 
a  board,  fastened  to  the  ground,  to  lei  us  see  the 
players'  feet  like  when  they  cdma  upon  the  stage, 
while  twa  blind  fiddlers  played  ihe  lK)nnicst  3'e  ever 
heard.  Odds!  the  very  music  was  worth  a  sixpence 
o'  itself. 

Just  at  the  time  that  the  fiddlers  were  })layin'  the 
"Doonfa'  o'  Paris,"  a  hand  bell  rang  and  up  goes 
the  green  curtain.  The  music  stoppin',  in  comes  a 
decent  old  gentleman  at  his  leisure,  weel  poothered, 
wi'  an  auld-fashioned  coat,  wi'  flap-pockets,  broon 
breeches,  wi'  buckles  at  the  knee,  an'  silk  stockin's 
wi'  gushets  on  a  blue  ground.  I  never  saw  a  man 
in  sic  distress.  He  stanipit  aboot,  an'  stampit  aboot, 
dadding  the  end  o'  liis  staff  on  the  ground,  and  im- 
plorin'  all  the  pooers  o'  heaven  an'  yearth  to  helj) 
him  ^nd  liis  runawa'  dauchter  that  had  decampit  wi' 


IF'^  HEADINGS,  IIKCITATIONS, 

a  puir  looii  o'  a  lKilf-2)ay  captain,  that  ke[)pit  lier  in 
his  arms  trae  her  bedioom  window,  up  iwa  pair  o' 
stairs.  Every  father  an'  heid  o'  a  family  maun  ha'e 
felt  for  a  man  in  ijis  situation,  thus  to  be  lobbit  of  his 
dear  bairn,  an'  only  dauclitei',  too,  ashetell't  usower 
an'  ower  again,  as  the  saut,  saut  tears  ran  gushin' 
doon  his  withered  face.  But  the  thing  was  absurd, 
to  suppose  that  we  should  ken  anything  aboot  the 
matter,  havin'  never  seen  either  him  or  his  dauchter. 
Sae  cot  he  gaed  stampin'  at  the  ither  side,  determined, 
as  he  said,  to  fin'  them  oot,  though  he  shotild  follow 
them  to  the  warld's  end. 

Hardly  was  his  back  turned,  an'  before  ye  cotild 
cry  "  Jack  Robinson,"  incomes  the  birkie  an'  the  very 
young  leddy  the  auld  gentleman  described,  arm  in 
arm  thegither.  As  true  as  death,  before  all  the  crood 
o'  folks,  he  pit  his  arm  roon'  her  waist  an'  ca'd  her 
his  sweetheart,  an'  love,  an'  dearie,  an'  darlin',  an' 
everything  that  is  sweet.  If  they  had  been  courtin' 
in  a  close  thegither,  on  a  Friday  nicht,  they  couldna' 
ha'e  said  mair  to  yen  anither.  I  thought  sic  shame 
to  be  an  e'ewitness  to  sic  on-goin's,  that  I  was  obliged 
at  last  to  hand  up  my  hat  afore  my  face  an'  luik  doon. 

The  faifher  lookit  to  be  a  rich  auld  bool,  baith  frae 
his  manner  o'  speakin',  an'  the  rewards  he  seemed  to 
offer  for  tlie  apprehension  o'  the  dauchter;  but,  to  be 
sure,  when  so  many  of  us  were  present  that  had  an 
equal  right  to  the  spulzie,  it  wadna  be  a  great  deal 
■ — a  thoosand  poonds — when  dividit.  Still,  it  were 
Avorth  the  lookin'  after;  so  we  justbidita  wee.  Just 
in  the  middle  o'  their  fine  goin's-on,  the  sound  o'  a 
comin'  fit  was  heard,  an'  the  lassie,  takin'  guilt  tae 
hersel,  cried  oot — "  Hide  me,  hide  me,  for  the  sake  o' 
gudeness,  for  yonder  comes  my  auld  faither !  " 

Nae  sooner  said  than  done.  In  he  clappit  herintil 
a  closet ;  and  after  shuttin'  the  door  on  her,  sat  doon 
upon  a  chair,  an'  pretendit  to  be  asleep  in  a  moment. 
Tlie  auld  faither  came  booncing  in,  and  seeing  the 
fellow  asleep,  he  opened  his  een  as  fast  as  he  had 
steekit  them.     After  blackguarding  him  up  liill  an' 


AND  UfPERSONATIONS.  183 

dooii  dale,  an'  ca'iiig  him  every  name  but  a  gentle- 
man, he  haddit  liis  staff  o'er  his  crown,  an',  grippin' 
liim  by  the  cruff  o'  the  neck,  askithim  whaur  was  his 
dauchter?  The  rascal  had  the  brass  to  say  at  yence, 
that  he  hadna  seen  his  dauchter  for  a  month  !  Though 
mair  than  a  liunnert  folk,  sittin'  in  his  compan}',  had 
seen  him  dauting  her  with  his  arm  roon'  her  waist,  not 
live  minutes  before.  As  a  man,  as  a  faither,  as  an  elder 
o'  oor  kirk,  I  aye  hated  leeing,  as  a  puir  cowardly 
sin;  an'  I  thoeht,  that  wha  ever  spoke  first  wad  ha'e 
the  best  richt  to  be  entitled  to  the  reward.  So  I  rose 
up  an'  said:  ''Dinna  believe  him,  auld  gentleman, 
dinna  believe  him,  freen';  he's  tellin'  a  parcel  o'  lees. 
It's  no'  worth  arguin'  aboot,  or  ca'in'  witnesses.  Just 
open  that  press  door,  an'  ye'll  see  whether  I'm  speak- 
in'  truth  or  no'." 

Never  did  I  witness  sic  an  uproar  an'  noise  as  im- 
mediately took  place.  The  liail  hoose  was  sae  glad 
that  the  scoondrel  had  been  exposed,  that  they  set 
up  sic  a  roar  of  laughter,  an'  thumpit  awa'  at  sic  a 
rate  wi'  their  feet,  that  doon  fell  the  place  they  ca'd 
the  gallery.  A  rush  to  the  door  took  place,  in  which 
everything  was  overturnit — the  door-keeper  wheeled 
away  like  wild-fire — the  lights  knockit  oot,  an'  I 
myself  carried  along  till  I  found  myself  oot  o'  doors  i' 
the  dark  leanin'  against  the  wa'  on  the  opposite  side  o' 
the  road,  dizzy  and  bruiset,  but  thankin'  my  lucky 
stars  that  I  was  na  killit  on  the  spot. — David  Moir. 

THE  RUNAWAY  PRINCESS. 

When  on  all  the  wood-paths  brown 
Red  and  gold  the  leaves  drop  down, 
Through  the  warm,  sweet  sunshine  straying, 
To  my  ear  the  wind  caine,  saying : 

"  Hearken  !  can  you  understand 
What's  amiss  in  Fairyland?" 
Ding !  dong !  the  bells  are  swinging, 
Here's  the  town-crier  ringing! 


184  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

"Lost !  lost  I  "  you  hear  him  say, 
"  Stolen  or  strayed  away  I 
Strayed  away  from  Buttercup-town, 
The  fair  little  Princess  Thistledown  I " 

All  the  court  had  gone  to  dine 
Knights  and  lords  and  ladies  fine. 
Through  the  open  gateway  straying 
Came  a  troop  of  minstrels  playing. 

One  was  a  fiddler,  shrivelled  and  black  ; 
One  had  a  banjo  over  his  back  ; 
One  was  a  piper,  and  one  did  naught 
But  (lance  to  the  tune,  as  a  dancer  ought. 

First  the  fiddler  drew  his  how, 
Struck  a  chord  so  soft  and  low — 
Lords  and  ladies  held  their  breath, 
In  a  silence  deep  as  death. 

''Tiiiga-ting,"  the  banjo  rang; 
Up  the  lords  and  ladies  sprang ; 
Round  about  the  piper  pressed — 
"  Ho,  good  piper,  pipe  your  best !  " 

And  they  danced  to  the  sound 

In  a  merry-go-round. 

For  never  before  ha'd  a  minstrel  band. 

Chanced  to  stray  into  fairyland. 

They  filled  their  pockets  with  silver  money, 
They  fed  them  on  barley  cakes  and  honey ; 
But  when  they  were  fairly  out  of  town 
They  missed  little  Princess  Thistledown. 

"  Call  the  crier  !  ring  the  bells  ! 
Search  through  all  the  forest  dells  I 
Here  is  silver,  liere  is  gold. 
Here  are  precious  gems  untold  I 


AND  IMPEIiSONATIONS.  185 

He  who  finds  the  cliild  may  take 
Half  the  kingdom  for  her  sake !  " 

Bill!  !  h(H)ni  !  Comes  a  blustering  fellow, 
Dressed  in  bhick  velvet  slashed  with  3^elk)w; 
He's  the  king's  trumpeter  out  on  the  track 
Of  the  wandering  minstrels  to  bring  them  back. 

But  the  fiddler  is  telling  his  beads  by  the  fire, 

In  a  cap  and  a  gown,  like  a  grizzly  old  friar ; 

The  man  with  a  banjo  is  deaf  as  a  post, 

The  jolly  old  piper  as  thin  as  a  ghost ; 

And  the  dancer  is  changed  by  some  jnagic  touch 

To  a  one-legged  beggar  that  limps  on  his  crutch. 

Then  Mistress  Gentian  bent  to  look 
At  her  own  sweet  image  in  the  brook. 
And  whispered,  "  Nobody  knows  it,  dear, 
But  I  have  the  darling  safely  here." 

And  drooping  her  fringes  low  she  said : 

"I  was  tucking  my  babies  into  bed, 

When  the  poor  little  Princess  chanced  to  pass, 

Sobbing,  among  the  tangled  grass  ; 

Her  silver  mantle  was  rumpled  and  torn, 

Her  golden  slippers  were  dust}^  and  worn ; 

The  bats  had  frightened  her  half  to  death, 
The  spiders  had  chased  her  quite  out  of  breath. ; 
I  fed  her  with  honey,  I  washed  her  with  dew, 
I  rocked  her  to  sleep  in  my  cradle  of  blue ; 
And  I  could  tell,  if  I  chose  to  say, 
Who  it  was  coaxed  her  to  run  away." 

The  mischievous  wind  the  cradle  swung, 

(Song.) 
**  Sleep,  little  lad}^  sleep  !  "  he  sung ; 
"  What  would  they  say  if  they  only  kne"W 
It  was  I  who  ran  away  with  you  ? 
Sleep,  little  lady,  sleep  ! " 

Umili/  11.  Miller. 


186  ^«  ^i'^^  />/ A'  (^.'S  V.KCl  TA  TIONS, 

THE  FATO  OF  NINA  AND  RIENZI. 

{Arranged  especially  for  this  collection.) 

It  was  a  summer's   evening.     Two  yoaths,  eac 

with  his  arm  around  the  form  of  liis  comrade,  Tniprht 
be  seen  walking  bv  the  banks  of  tlie  Tiber.  The 
tender,  boyish  face  of  tlie  younger  suddenly  blanclied 
with  terror,  as  there  appeared,  beyond  a  neighboring 
hill,  a  train  of  cavaliers,  followed  by  a  miscellaneous 
crowd  all  armed  with  pike  and  mail,  while  high  above 
the  plumes  and  pikes  floated  the  blood-red  banner  of 
the  Orsini.  A  moment  later,  with  a  cry  of  "  Save 
me  !  save  me!"  he  sank  to  the  ground,  and  Cola  di 
Kieuzi  saw  his  brother's  blood  flowing  at  his  feet. 
Kneeling  by  that  bleeding  clay,  he  sent  up  the  wild 
cry : — "  Justice,  justice.  Will  they  notgi ve  us  jusi  ice  ? 
Soyoung,  so  gentle,  so  harmless  I"  Sosaying,  he  bent 
his  head  over  the  corpse,  his  lips  moving  as  in  prayer 
or  invocation.  Tiien  he  arose — a  new  being — The 
Liberator  of  Rome. 

Years  passed,  and  the  death  of  the  Roman  boy  was 
forgotten  in  the  growing  fame  and  fortunes  ot  the 
xdder  brother.  Rienzi  speaks  :  *'  In  the  ruins  of  the 
Forum  I  will  make  the  last  appeal  to  the  ])eo})le. 
By  this  crucifix  I  pledge  my  faith — on  this  blade  I 
«devote  my  life  to  the  regeneration  of  Rome  I  Death  to 
the  tyranny  I     Life  to  the  Republic!" 

All  Rome  thrilled  under  the  thunder  of  his  im- 
passioned utterances :  "  Oh,  Romans,  awake,  I  con- 
jure you  !  Let  the  memory  of  your  former  power, 
your  ancient  liberties,  sink  deep  into  3^our  souls.  Ye 
are  without  lawful  chiefs — and  why?  Because  you 
are  not  without  your  law-defying  tyrants.  You  have 
made  a  mockery  of  your  country,  once  the  mistress 
of  the  world!  You  have  steeped  her  lips  in  gall! 
Ye  have  set  a  crown  of  thorns  upon  her  head  !  In  a 
proj)itious  hour  if  ye  seize  it,  in  an  evil  one  if  ye 
suffer  the  glorious  opportunity  to  escape,  has  this  re- 
cord of  the  past  been  uufolded  to  your  eyes.     Rec- 


AND  BfPERSONAriONS.  187 

ol'iect  that  the  jubilee  approiielies.  Let  the  moun- 
tains exult  arouud  !  '"On  her  seven-hilled  throne 
renowned  old  Rome  is  crowned" — jubilate — ''Now, 
even  now,  a  voice  seems  t')  wliisper  in  lu}'  ear: 
*  Pause  not,  tremble  not,  waver  not;  for  the  eye  of 
the  All-seeing  is  u[)()n  you,  the  hand  of  the  AU- 
powert'ul  shall  protect.'  " 

He  spoke  as  one  inspired.  They  trembled  and  be- 
lieved,  as  rapt  from  the  spectacle  he  stood  a  moment 
silesit,  his  arm  still  extended,  his  dark,  dilating  eye 
iixed  upon  space,  his  lips  parted,  his  proud  form 
towering  and  erect  above  the  herd.  His  own  enthu- 
siasm had  kindled  that  of  more  humble  and  distant 
hearers.  ''The  Lord  is  Avith  Italy  and  Rienzi!" 
thev  cried  ao-ain  and  aq:ain,  as  the  tribune  turned 
and  sought  the  chamber  of  Nina,  his  proud,  beautiful 
wife. 

Rome  is  regenerated.  The  people  reign  supreme. 
From  triumphal  arches  of  drapery  wrought  with 
silver  and  gold,  inscribed  witli  mottoes  of  welcome, 
floated  banners  as  if  for  victory.  Rome  once  more 
opened  liei-  arms  lo  receive  her  tribune  and  his  bride 
— the  regal  Nina.  "  Way  there — keep  back — way — 
make  way  for  the  most  illustrions — the  great 
Senaior  of  Rome.  He  comes  !  He  comes  !  Rienzi! 
Rienzi !     Welcome  to  liberty  and  Rienzi  I  " 


It  was  the  morning  of  the  eighth  of  October, 
thirteen  hundred  and  hfty-four.  Alas!  that  the  sun 
should  rise  bright  and  glorious  upon  such  a  scene  of 
human  desertion  and  misguided  power!  Suddenly 
there  burst  upon  the  ear  cries  of — "Death  to  the 
t3nant !  death  to  the  traitor!  down  with  him  who 
taxes  the  peo))le  !  "     For  it  had  come  to  this. 

'•  Fly  Rienzi !  Hasten  Signora  !  Thank  Heaven 
I  can  save  ye  yet !  The  cit}^  is  filled  with  armed 
nen — not  thine.    Senator,  fly  !  " 

"Hist!"  whispered  Rienzi.  "Save  Nina!  Never 
shall   mine   enemies,  never  shall   posterity,  say  that 


188  READINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

Rieiizi  abaiuloned  Rome.  Yes,  now,  Nina,  we  part. 
Jf  this  Ls  niv  last  hour,  may  God  shiekl  and  bless 
ihee  !  " 

•'What!  Part?  Never!  This  is  iny  place!  I 
am  the  wife  of  Cola  di  Kienzi,  the  great  SeiiatCHV 
and  by  his  side  will  I  live  and  die!  All  Rome  can- 
not separate  me  from  him  !  " 

Again  from  earth  to  lieaveii  arose  that  ominous 
shout — "Down  witli  the  tyrant !  "  And  once  again 
Rienzi  vainly  pleaded  with  Nina.  "  Be  it  so  then  ; 
come,  Ave  will  die  together !  Listen  !  JJut  a  few 
days  ago  and  *  Long  live  Rienzi ! '  was  the  or}'. 
Now,  '  Beware  lest  the  traitor  escape  disguised.' 

''  Enough,  enough !  Let  Rome  perish !  I  feel  at 
last  that  I  am  nobler  than  my  country  !  "  Then  in 
a  loud  voice  he  cried — '*  I  am  the  Senator  ;  who  dare 
touch  the  representative  of  the  people  ?  "  Silent  he 
stood,  awaiting  the  issue.  What  lurid  glare  lights  up 
the  morning  sky  ?  The  whole  Capitol  is  in  flames,  with 
Nina  and  Rienzi  in  their  bridal  chamber,  now 
the  chamber  of  execution.  "  Die,  traitor  !  '*  and  the 
life  of  Rienzi  flowed  out  at  Nina's  feet.  Alone  with 
her  dead  she  stood  upon  his  funeral  pyre.  Ere  yet 
tlie  sound  of  that  thrilling  cry  had  died  upon  the  air, 
down  with  a  mighty  crash  thundered  the  whole  wing 
of  the  Capitol — a  blackened  and  smouldering  mass. 

The  lurid  glare  of  the  conflagration  cast  its  reflec- 
tion upon  a  smooth  and  placid  stream,  far  in  the  dis- 
tance, while,  with  a  beauty,  soft  beyond  all  art  of 
painter  and  of  poet,  the  sunliglit  quivered  over  the 
autumnal  herbage  and  liushed  into  tender  calm  the 
waves  of  the  golden  Tiber. — Adapted  from  Bulwer^s 
*'  Last  of  the  Tribunes.''^ 

THE  CHILD  ON  THE  JUDGMENT  SEAT. 

Where  hast  thon  been  toiling  all  day,  sweetheart, 

That  thy  brow  is  burdened  and  sad  ? 
i'lie  Master's  work  may  make  weary  feet, 

Sut  it  leaves  the  spirit  glad. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  189 

W.18  thy  gaiclen  nipped  with  the  midnight  frost, 

Or  scorched  with  the  mid-day  glare  ? 
Were  thy  vines  laid  low,  or  thy  lilies  crushed, 

That  thy  face  is  so  full  of  care  ? 

"  No  pleasant  garden  toils  were  mine. 

I  have  sat  on  the  judgment  seat, 
Where  the  Master  sits  at  eve,  and  calls 

The  children  around  His  feet." 

How  earnest  thou  on  the  judgment  seat, 

Sweetheart,  who  set  thee  there? 
'Tis  a  lonely  and  lofty  seat  for  thee. 

And  well  might  fill  thee  with  care. 

"  I  climbed  on  the  judgment  seat  myself, 

I  have  sat  there  alone  all  day, 
For  it  grieved  me  to  see  the  children  round 

Idling  their  life  away. 

"  They  wasted  the  Master's  precious  seed, 

They  wasted  the  precious  hours ; 
They  trained  not  the  vines,  nor  gathered  the  fruit, 

And  they  trampled  the  sweet,  meek  flowers." 

And  what  didst  thou  on  the  judgment  seat, 

Sweetheart,  what  didst  thou  there? 
Would  the  idlers  heed  thy  childish  voice  ? 

Did  the  garden  mend  for  thy  care? 

"Nay;  and  that  grieved  me  more;  I  called  and  I 
cried, 

But  they  left  me  there  forlorn ; 
My  voice  was  weak,  and  they  heeded  not, 

Or  they  lauglied  my  words  to  scorn." 

Ah  !  the  judgment  seat  was  not  for  thee, 

Tlie  servants  were  not  thine  ; 
And  the  eyes  which  fix  the  praise  and  the  blame 

See  farther  than  thine  or  mine. 


190  IKAUINCS,  VECITATIONS, 

The  voice  that  sliall  sound  tliere  at  eve,  sweetheart, 

VV'iil  not  strive  nor  eiy  to  be  heard; 
It  will  liiish  llie  earlh,  and  hush  the  liearts, 

And  nt'Ue  will  resist  iis  word. 

"  Siiould  J  see  the  Master's  ireasuies  lost, 

'I'lie  gilts  that  should  feed  J  lis  poor, 
And  not  lift  my  voice  (be  it  as  weak  as  it  may), 

And  not  be  grieved  sore  ?" 

Wait  till  the  evening  falls,  sweetheart, 

Wait  till  the  evening  falls; 
The  Master  is  near  and  knowetli  all; 

Wait  till  the  Master  calls. 

But  liow  fared  thy  garden  plot,  sweetheart. 
Whilst  thou  sat  on  the  judgment  seat? 

Who  watered  thy  roses,  and  trained  thy  vines, 
And  kept  them  from  careless  feet  ? 

"  Nay  !  that  is  saddest  of  all  to  me, 

Tliat  is  saddest  of  all ! 
My  vines  are  trailing,  my  roses  are  parched. 

My  lilies  droop  and  fall." 

Go  back  to  thy  garden  plot,  sweetheart. 

Go  back  till  the  evening  falls. 
And  bind  thy  lilies,  and  train  thy  vines. 

Till  for  thee  the  Master  calls. 

Go  make  thy  garden  fair  as  thou  canst, 

Thou  workest  never  alone  ; 
Perchance  he  whose  plot  is  next  to  thine 

Will  see  it,  and  mend  his  own. 

And  ilie  next  shall  copy  his,  sweetheart, 

Till  all  glows  fair  and  sweet; 
And  when  the  Master  comes  at  eve, 

Happy  faces  His  coming  will  greet. 


AM)  L\JrLliSOAA  Iiu:^^.  19X 

Then  shall  thy  joy  be  lull,  sweetheart, 

In  thy  garden  so  fair  to  see, 
In  the  Master's  voice  of  praise  to  all, 

In  a  look  of  His  own  for  thee. 

Bi/  the  Author  of  the  "  Cotta  Family'* 


MAY  DAYS. 

In  sweet  May  time,  so  long  ago, 

I  stood  by  the  big  wheel,  spinning  tow, 

Buzz,  buzz,  so  very  slow; 

Dark  rougli  logs  from  the  ancient  trees, 

Fireplace  wide  for  the  children's  glees. 

Above  the  smoky  boards  and  beams, 

Down  through  the  crevice  poured  golden  gleams, 

Till  the  wlieel  dust  glimmered  like  diamond  dreams; 

Mother  busy  with  household  cares. 

Baby  playing  with  upturned  chairs, 

Old  clock  telling  how  fast  time  wears. 

These  within.     Out  under  the  sky 
Flecked  mists  were  sailing,  birds  flitting  by. 
Joyous  children  playing  '*  I  spy." 
Up  from  tlie  earth  curled  leaves  were  coming. 
Bees  in  the  morning  sunshine  humming, 
Away  in  ti»e  woods  the  partridge  drumming, 

O,  how  i  longed  to  burst  away, 
From  my  dull  task  to  the  outer  day; 
But  we  were  poor  and  I  must  stay. 
So  buzz  !  buzz  I — 'twas  very  slow. 
Drawing  thieads  from  thesliining  tow. 
When  I  he  lieart  was  dancing  so. 

Then  Ijope  went  spinning  a.  i)rigliter  thread; 
On,  on,  through  life's  long  lane  it  led, 
A  path  my  feet  sliould  one  day  tread. 


192  READINGS,  UKCIIATIONS, 

So  pleasant  lliouglits  would  time  beguile, 
Till  my  mother  said,  with  beaming  smile, 
"My  child  may  rest,  1  will  reel  awhile." 

Rest!  'twas  the  ^est  that  childhood  takes, 
Off  over  fences  and  fragrant  brakes, 
To  the  wilds,  wliere  the  earliest  w^oodland  flings. 
Spring  of  the  year,  and  life's  sweet  spring, 
VVords  are  poor  for  the  thoughts  ye  bring. 

But  ye  come  together  to  me  no  more, 
Your  twin  steps  rest  on  the  field  of  yore, 
Ye  are  mine  on  yonder  immortal  shore. 
'Twas  hard  to  leave  those  bright  May  days, 
The  mossy  path,  and  leafy  maze 
For  common  work,  and  humdrum  ways. 

But  my  steps  were  turned,  I  was  up  the  lane, 

Back  to  the  buzzing  wheel  again  ; 

My  yarn  had  finished  the  ten  knot  skein, 

And  my  gentle  mother  stroked  my  head  : 

"Your yarn  is  very  nice,"  she  said, 

"  It  will  make  a  beautiful  tablespread. 

"  You  are  my  good  girl  to  work  so  well." 
Great  thoughts  my  childish  heart  would  swell, 
'Till  the  happy  tears  like  rain  drops  fell. 
1  would  toil  for  lier,  I  would  gather  lore, 
From  many  books  a  mighty  store. 
And  pay  her  kindness  o'er  and  o'er. 

She  should  work  no  more  at  wheel  or  loom, 
My  earnings  should  give  her  a  cozy  room. 
Bright  and  warm  for  the  winter's  gloom, 
A  soft  arm-cliair  for  her  weary  hours. 
Books  and  music,  pictures,  flowers. 

S^'  the  sweet  dream  ran,  as  the  wheel  buzzed  on, 
*Till  the  golden  gleams  of  light  were  gone, 
And  the  chilling  rain  came  dripping  down. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  193 

Ah  !  my  lieart  has  it  e'er   been  so, 
Cold  clouds  shading  life's  sunniest  glow, 
Warm  hopes  drowned  in  the  cold  wave's  flow 

In  the  same  low  room  my  mother  pressed 
Eacli  child  to  her  softly  heavhig  breast. 
And  closed  lier  eyes  and  went  to  rest. 
The  old  walls  crumbled  long  ago. 
Hushed  the  big  wheel's  buzzing  slow, 
Worn  to  shreds  is  the  shining  tow. 

Yet  with  the  bursting  leaves  and  flowers, 
The  gushing  songs  and  pearly  showers, 
Life  brightens  as  in  childhood's  hours, 
And  hope,  tliis  golden  morn  in  May, 
Spins  golden  threads  that  float  away 
To  a  lieavenly  liome  that  is  bright  for  aye. 

Waverly  Magazine, 


THE  CONQUERED  BANNER. 

{Prize  Selection  at  North  Mo.  State  Normal,  Jan.,  1889.) 

Furl  tliat  banner,  for  'tis  weary, 
'Round  its  staff  'lis  drooping  dreary,. 
Furl  it,  fold  it,  for  it  is  best. 
For  there's  not  a  m;in  to  wave  it. 
And  there's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
And  there's  not  a  hand  to  lave  it 
In  tlie  blood  tiiat  heroes  gave  it. 
Furl  it,  hide  it;  let  it  rest. 

Take  that  banner  down,  'tis  tattered; 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered. 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh  !  'tis  hard  for  us  to  fold  it. 
Hard  to  think  there's  none  to  hold  it. 
Hard  that  tliose  who  once  "ni-oUed  it 
Now  must  furl  it  witii  a  sign. 


194  READINGS,  llECITATIONS, 

Furl  that  banner — t'liil  it  sadly! 
Once  ten  tliousand  hailed  it  gladly, 
And  ten  tliousand  w  ildly — madly — 
Swore  it  slionhl  forever  wave — 
Swore  tliat  foenian's  souinl  could  never 
Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever 
Till  that  Hag  would  wave  forever, 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave. 

Furl  it,  for  tlie  hand  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  cLisped  it 
Cold  a!id  dead  are  lying  now. 
And  the  banner — it  is  trailing. 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 
For  though  conquered  they  adore  it, 
Love  the  cold  dead  hands  that  bore  it  1 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it ! 
Pardon  those  who  trailed  and  tore  it! 
Wildly — wildly  they  deplore  it 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so. 

Furl  tliat  banner — true  'tis  gory. 
But  'tis  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  'twill  live  in  song  and  story 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust. 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages: 
Furl  its  folds  though  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  banner — softly — slowly — 
Treat  it  gentlv — it  is  holy — 
For  it  droops  above  the  dead  ! 
Touch  it  not — unfold  it  never  ! 
Let  it  drop  there — furled  forever, 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  dead. 

Father  Byan, 


AND  IMPEliSONAriONS,  195 


ROBERT   E.  LEE. 


When  tlie  future  liistoriau  conies  to  survey  the 
character  of  Robert  E.  Lee,  he  will  fiiul  it  rising  like 
a  huge  mountain  above  the  undulating  plain  of 
humanity,  and  lie  will  have  to  lift  his  eyes  high, 
high  toward  heaven  to  catch  its  summit. 

He  possessed  every  virtue  of  the  other  great  com- 
manders without  their  vices.  He  was  a  foe  without 
hate,  a  friend  without  treachery,  a  soldier  without 
cruelty,  and  a  victim  without  murmuring.  He  was  a 
public  officer  without  vice,  a  private  citizen  without 
wrong,  a  Christian  without  hypocrisy,  and  a  man 
without  guile.  He  was  Caesar  without  Csesar's  am- 
bition, Frederick  without  Frederick's  tyranny.  Napo- 
leon without  Napoleon's  selfishness,  and  Washington 
without  VVashing ton's  reward.  He  was  obedient  to 
authority  as  a  servant,  and  royal  in  authority  as  a 
king.  In  life,  gentle  as  a  woman,  in  thought  modest 
and  pure  as  a  virgin  I  Watchful  as  a  Roman  Vestal 
in  dutv,  submissive  to  law  as  Socrates,  and  grand  in 
battle  as  Achilles.— ^.  H.  tin. 

1  t!r:   in^iU  :  aNS. 

The  Puritans — tiie  nu»sL  icmarkable  body  of  men, 
perhaps,  which  the  world  lias  ever  produced!  The 
odious  and  ridiculous  parts  ot"  their  character  lie  on 
the  surface.  He  that  runs  may  read  them  ;  nor  have 
there  been  wanting  attentive  and  malicious  observers 
to  point  them  out.  For  many  years  after  the  Res- 
toration they  were  the  tlieme  of  unmeasured  invective 
and  derision.  They  w^ere  not  men  of  letters ;  they 
were,  as  a  body,  unpopular ;  they  could  not  defend 
themselves  ;  and  the  public  would  not  take  them 
under  its  protection.  They  were  therefore  abandoned 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  satirists  and  the  drama- 
tists. The  ostentatious  simplicity  of  their  dress, 
their   sour   as*pect,   their   stiff    posture,    their  long 


196  HEADINGS,  liECITATIONS, 

graces,  their  Hebrew  names,  their  contempt  of 
human  learning,  and  their  detestation  of  polite 
amusement  were,  indeed,  fair  game  for  the  laughers. 
But  it  is  not  from  the  laugliers  alone  that  the 
pliilosophy  of  human  history  is  to  be  learnt. 

Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance,  who 
formed,  out  of  the  most  unpromising  material,  the 
finest  army  that  Europe  had  ever  seen,  who  trampled 
down  king,  clmrch  and  aristocracy,  who  made  the 
name  of  England  terrible  to  every  nation  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  were  no  vulgar  fanatics. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  liad  derived 
a  peculiar  character  from  the  daily  contemplation  of 
superior  beings  and  eternal  interests.  Not  content 
with  acknowledging  in  general  terms  an  overruling 
Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every  event  to 
the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power  nothing 
was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too 
minute.  To  know  Him,  to  serve  Him,  to  enjoy  Him, 
was  with  tliem  the  great  end  of  existence.  They 
recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  His  favor 
and  confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  all  the 
accomplishments  and  all  the  dignities  of  tlie  world. 
If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philoso- 
phers and  of  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the 
oracles  of  God.  H  their  names  were  not  found 
in  tlie  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt  assured  that 
they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If  their 
steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train 
of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge 
over  them.  Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made 
witli  hands  ;  their  diadems,  crowns  of  glory  which 
should  never  fade  away!  On  the  i-ich  and  the 
eh)quent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down 
with  coniem])t;  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich 
in  a  more  i)recious  treasure  and  eloquent  in  a  more 
sublime  language.  The  very  meanest  of  them  was 
a  heii'o-  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  im- 
portance belougcMl.  For  his  sake  empires  had  risen 
an<i     llourisht;(l    and    decaved.     For    his    sake    the 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  197 

Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the 
evangelist  and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  It  was  for 
liim  that  the  sun  had  been  darkened,  that  the  rocks 
liad  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had  arisen,  that  all 
nature  liad  slmddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expir- 
ing (lod. 

The  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men, 
the  one  all  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  pas- 
sion ;  the  other  proud,  calm,  inflexible,  sagacious. 
He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker  ; 
but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his 
devotional  retirement  he  prayed  with  convulsions, 
and  groans,  and  tears.  He  was  half  maddened  by 
glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres  of 
angels  or  the  tempting  whispere  of  fiends.  He  caught 
a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke  screaming 
from  dreams  of  everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,  he 
thought  himself  intrusted  with  the  sceptre  of  the 
millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in  the  bit- 
terness of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  His  face  from 
him.  But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or  girt 
on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous  workings  of 
the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind  them. 
People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their  un- 
couth visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them  btit 
their  groans  and  whining  hymns,  might  laugh  at 
them.  But  those  luid  little  reason  to  laugh  who  en- 
countered them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field 
of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  mili- 
tary affairs  an  innnntability  of  purpose  and  a  cool- 
ness of  iudcrment,  which  some  writeis  have  thouorht 
inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but  wliich  were, 
in  fact,  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of 
their  feelinf^s  on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on 
every  other.  Deiith  liad  lost  its  terrors,  and  pleasure 
its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles  and  tlieir  tears, 
their  raptures  and  their  sorrows,  but  not  for  the 
things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had  made  them 
Stoics,  had  cleared  their  minds  from  every  vulgar 
passion  and  prejudice,  and  raised  them  above  the 
influence  of  danger  and  of  corruption. — Macaulay. 


198  HEADINGS,  L'KCITATIONS, 


ARTIST  AND   PEASANT. 

"  I  wish,  Mr.  Painter,  a  picter — 

A  model  o'  beauty  to  me — 
An'  if  ye  can  paint  it  like  life,  sir, 

This  stout  bag  of  gold  is  yer  fee. 
The  task  will  be  naught,  sure,  for  ye,  sir: 

A  little  brown  hand  full  o'  flowers ; 
Wild  roses,  an'  ferns,  an'  field  blossoms, 

Thet  grow  in  thet  meader  o'  ours. 
On  course,  we'd  prefer  the  whole  picter, 

With  eyes  all  aglow,  an'  her  hair 
Full  o'  sunbeams,  thet  lingered  caressin', 

'S  if  loth  tu  escape  from  their  lair. 
No  artist  could  paint  that,  Pm  sure,  sir, 

The  face  o'  thet  baby  o'  ours  ; 
So  jo3'ous  she  held  up  thet  hand,  sii-, 

Savin',  'Papa,  Pve  dot  'oo  some  f'owers!* 
We  thought,  p'r'aps  the  hand  an'  the  flowers— 

So  purty  they  looked  thet  June  day — 
A  master  might  make  '  like  as  life,'  sir, 

If  so,  Pm  right  will  in'  tu  pay." 

"  I  think,  my  good  man,  I  can  do  it, 

The  little  one  bring  for  your  quest ; 
One  sitting,  perhaps,  will  suffice  me, 

I'll  do  what  I  can — do  my  best. 
And  when  she's  before  me,  I'll  try  then, 

Those  eyes,  and  locks  kissed  by  the  sun ; 
Perchance,  the  sweet  babe  in  her  beauty 

You'll  find  on  the  canvas  when  done." 

"What!  bring  lier  'round  liCi-e?  Why,  I  can't,  sir  I 

She  lies  with  flowers  clasped  to  her  breast — 
Clasped  loose,  in  that  little  dead  hand,  sir. 

The  way  we  have  laid  her  to  rest ; 
We  thouglit  p'r'aps  ye  might  easy  do  it. 

If  told,  or  made  plain  to  yer  e3*e ; 
Well-a-day  !  there  are  things  we  would  have,  sir, 

That  mone}',  though  mighty,  can't  buy." 

Fannie  L.  Fancher, 


A:ND  lMPK2i^O^ATIONS.  199 


MARSE  PHIL. 

Well,  well,  you  is   Marse   Phil's  son — yo'  favor  'm 
might'ly  too  ; — 
We  wiiz  like  bi'others,  we  wuz — me  an'  him; 
You  tried  to  fool  d'  ole  nigger,  but  marster,  'twould  n' 
do — 
Not  ef  you  is  done  growed  so  tall  an'  slim. 

Hi !  Lord  !  Pse  knowed  you,  honey,  senoe  long  befo' 
you  born — 
I  mean  Pse  knowed  be  fambly  dat  long; 
An'  dee's  all  white-folks,  marster,  dee  hands  white  as 
young  corn  ; 
An'  ef  dee  want  to — could  n'  do  no  wrong. 

You'  gran'pa  buyed  my  mammy  at  Gen'l  Nelson's 
sale  ; 
An'  Deely  she  come  out  de  same  estate ; 
An'  blood  is  jes  like  pra'r  is,  hit  tain'  gwine  nuver 
fail- 
Hit's  sutney  gwine  to  come  out  soon  or  late. 

When   I  was   born,  you'  gran'pa  gi'  me  to   young 
Marse  Phil, 

To  be  his  body-servant  like^  you  know  ; 
An'  we  growed  up  togerr,  like  two  stalks  in  one  hill, 

Bofe  tasslin'  an'  den  shootin'  in  de  row. 

Marse  Phil  was  born  in  harves',  an'  I  dat  Christmas- 
come, 
My  mamui}^  nussed  bofe  on  we  de  same  time ; 
No  matter  what  one  got,  suh,  de  urr  one  sho  git 
some, 
We  wuz  two  fibe-cent  pieces  in  one  dime. 

We  cotch  ole   hyahs   togerr,  an'   'possums,   liim    an' 
me  ; 

We  fished  dat  mill  pawn  over  night  an'  day, 
liid  horses  to  de  water,  treed  coons  np  de  same  tree  ; 

An'  when  you  see  one,  turr  warn'  fur  awa\'. 


200  ItEAVrNGS,  RECITATIONS, 

When  Marse  Pliil  went  to  college,  't  wuz,  "Sjim — 
Sam's  got   to  go  " — Ole  iiiarster  say,  "  Dat  boy's 
a  fool  'bout  Sam." 
Ole  Mistis  jest  say,  "  Dear,  Phil  wants  liim."  An',  you 
know, 
Dat  Dear  hit  use  to  sooth'  him  like  a  lamb. 

So  we  all  went  to  college,  way  down  to  Williamsbu'g, 
But  'warn'  much  lainin'  out  o'  books  we  got; 

Dem  uns  warn'  no  mo'  to  him  'n  a'  ole  wormy  lug — 
Yes,  suh,  we  wuz  de  ve'y  top  de  pot. 

An'  ef  he  didn't  study  dem  Latins  an'  sich  things 

He  wuz  de  popularitest  all  de  while ; 
De  Lidies  use'  to  call  him  a'  *^  angel  widout  wings," 

An'  when  he  conje  I  lay,  dee  use'  to  smile  I 

You  see  he  wuz  ole  marster's  on'y  chile — besides, 

He  had  a  body-servant  at  he  will ; 
An'  wid  dat  big  plantation  dee'd  alllike  to  be  brides, 

Dat  is,  ef  dee  could  have  de  groom  Marse  Phil. 

*Twuz  dyah  he  meet  young  mistis, — she  is  you'  ma, 
of  co'se ! 
I  disremembers  now  which  mont'  it  wuz,* 
One  night  he  come,  an',  says  he,   "Sam,  I  need  new 
clo'es ; " 
An'  I  says,  *'  Marse  Phil,  yes,  suh,  so  you  does." 

Well,  suh,  he  made  dat  t&,ilor  meek  ev'ything  bran' 
new; 
He  would  n'  wear  one  stitch  he  had  on  han' — 
Jes  th'owed  'em  in  de  chip-box,  an'  says,  "  Sam,  dem's 
for  you  " — 
Marse  Phil,  I  tell  you,  wuz  a  gentleman  ! 

So  Marse  Phil  cotes  de  mistis,  an'  Sam  he  cotes  de 
maid — 

We  al'ays  sot  we  traps  upon  one  parf ;  [say'd, 

An'  when  ole  marster  liear  we  bofe  was  gwine,  he 

''  All  right;  we'll  have  to  kill  de  fatted  calf." 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  201 

An'  dat  wuz  what  dee    did,  sub  -,   de  Prodigal  was 
liorae ; — 
Dee  put  de  ring  an'  robe  upon  you'  ma ; 
Den  you  wuz  born,  young  nuirst^iv  aii'  deu  de  storm 
liir  come — 
An'  ({en  de  darkness  settled  from  afar. 

De  storm  liit  corned,  au'  wrenchted  de  branches  from 
de  tree, 
De  war — you'  j)a — lie's  sleep  dyah  on  de  hill ; 
An'  dough  1  know,  young  marster,  de  war  hit  sot  me 
free, 
I  jes  says,  *'  Yes,  but  tell  me  whar*s  Marse  Phil  ?  " 

**  A    dollar  " — thankee,  marster,  you  sutney  is  his 
son  ; 
His  ve'y  spi't-an-image,  I  declar' ! 
What  say,  young  marster  ?     Yes,  sub,  you  say,  it's 
"^6g,  not  one." 
You  favors,  honey,  bofe  you'  Pa  an'  Ma ! 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 


A  LITTLE  MISTAKE. 

St.  Nicholas  was  resting 

From  his  Christmas  work  at  last, 
The  gifts  had  all  been  given, 

The  holidays  were  past ; 
And  dozing  in  his  arm-chair, 

With  his  cat  upon  his  knees, 
The  good  Saint  smoked  his  honest  pipe, 

And  took  his  honest  ease. 
But  something  roused  him  quickly — 

He  started  from  his  seat, 
A  soldier  bold,  a  maiden  fair. 

Were  kneeling  at  his  feet 
**St.  Nicholas,"  the  maiden  cried, 

**  Behold  my  fearful  plight  I 
These  wounds  have  been  inflicted 

Since  that  dreadful,  dreadful  night. 


20'J  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

When  you  left  me  in  the  stocking 

Of  a  being  I  dure  not  name — " 
She  paused.    The  soldier  raised  his  voice, 

And  said,  ''  I  blusli,  with  sliame 
To  stand  before  your  saintship 

In  tlie  dress  you  now  behold. 
But  the  way  I  liave  been   treated 

Makes  my  very  bh^od  run  cold. 
I've  been  nursed  and  kissed  and  coddled, 

Tve  been  rocked  and  sung  to  sleep, 
Oil,  were  I  not  a  soldier  still, 

I'd  almost  like  to  weep." 
*'  Ah  !  "   mused  the  good  St.  Nicholas, 

"  I  think  I  understand," 
And  he  smiled  a  merry  little  smile. 

And  coughed  behind  his  hand. 
"  'Twas  on  that  busy  Christmas  eve 

When  all  was  in  a  whirl 
This  doll  was  given  to  a  boy, 

This  soldier  to  a  girl." 
And  then  aloud  he  gravely  said, 

"  I  grieve  to  see  your  pain. 
But  if  you  stay  with  me  a  year 

All  shall  be  well  again. 
Next  Christmas  eve,  my  children. 

When  you  are  well  and  strong, 
I  will  put  you  in  the  stockings 

Where  you  really  do  belong." 

"  I  wonder  where  my  soldier  is  !  " 

Cried  gentle  little  Moll, 
And  Bobby  gazing  round  him  sobbed, 

*' Where  is  my  baby-doll?" 

But  though  they  hunted  high  and  low, 
And  searched  both  far  and  near. 

The  maiden  and  the  soldier  bold 
Were  seen  no  more  that  year. 

J.  McDermottj  in  "  YoutKs  Companion!^ 


AJS'D  lJli'i:.ii^OSAnOMS.  203 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH. 

In  vain  do  partisans,  by  false  charges  and  nnholy 
appeals  to  the  bitter  memories  of  the  past,  attempt 
to  lash  the  Nortli  into  fury  against  the  Soutli. 

A  few  years  since,  Avhen  the  yellow  demon  liehl 
high  carnival  in  the  stricken  South,  a  vessel  freiglited 
by  generous  liearts  and  hands  in  the  North  floatetl 
down  the  father  of  waters  bearing  aid  to  those  who 
were  once  enemies,  but  now  of  kin  through  the  great 
"  touch  of  nature." 

The  commander  of  that  vessel,  a  galhmt  Union 
soldier,  now  sleeps  upon  the  historic  hills  of  Vicks- 
burg,  fit  monuments  to  the  memory  of  him,  who  died 
not  amidst  martial  music,  or  of  "  sliot  and  shell  and 
saber  stroke,"  but  with  a  higher  and  nobler  courage, 
silently  and  calmly  gave  up  his  life  for  those  he  had 
fought  and  conquered.  In  all  Jnstory,  whnt  scene, 
save  one  on  the  hills  of  Judea,  is  more  sublime  than 
that  upon  the  banks  of  the  great  river,  where  bearded 
men  and  pallid  women  with  loving  and  tender  hands 
laid  in  its  last  resting-place  the  body  of  tliat  northern 
soldier?  Angels  looked  down  with  moistened  eyes, 
and  from  all  nature  arose  that  hymn  of  love  which 
once  floated  over  the  blue  ^Egean. 

*'Love,  sons  of  earth,  for  love  is  earth's  soft  lore; 
Look  where  you  will,  earth  overflows  with  me; 
Learn  from  the  waves  that  ever  kiss  the  shore, 
And  the  winds  nestling  on  the  heaving  sea." 

Yes,  love  is  stronger  tlian  liate,  and  in  the  grave 
of  that  dead  hero  was  buried  the  last  vestige  of 
sectional  strife.  The  North  needs  the  South,  and  the 
South  needs  the  North.  Tlie  South  needs  the  energy 
and  wealth  of  the  great  North,  whilst  the  North  needs 
the  semi-tropical  productions  of  the  South. 

The  South  asks  for  no  ])ensions,  no  bounties,  no 
payment  of  its  war  debt.     There  is  not  a  Confederate 


204  READINGS,  llECITATIONS, 

soldier  worthy  the  name  who  would  Jisk  or  receive 
one  cent  fVom  tlie  fedenil  government  in  pension  or 
bounty.  All  that  the  South  asks  is  peace,  lasting, 
real,  true  peace — peace  in  which  to  build  up  its 
ruined  homes  and  industries — peace  in  which  to  pay 
its  pioportion  of  the  national  debt. 

What  the  country  demands  to-day  is  the  develop- 
ment of  its  material  resources,  and  the  protection  of 
its  citizens  in  every  right.  The  country  is  heartily  and 
thoroughly  tired  of  sectional  strife  and  sectional  legis- 
lation. Enveloped  by  a  common  nationality,  united 
by  a  common  destiny,  we  should  turn  our  backs  upon 
the  sad  memories  of  the  past,  and  go  resolutely  for- 
ward to  the  duties  of  the  future.  For  on  the  brow 
of  that  future,  God  has  written  in  letters  of  light 
and  beauty,  "  One  flag,  one  people,  one  country." 
Pledging  our  unfaltering  devotion  to  the  interests  of 
country,  we  shall,  if  new  interests  arise,  be  found  with 
that  great  party  which,  bearing  the  constitution  as 
the  gallant  Douglas  bore  the  Bruce's  heart,  will, 
when  overpowered,  fling  it  far  into  the  midst  of  its 
enemies,  and  falling,  covered  with  wounds  and  glory, 
protect  the  sacred  treasure  even  in  death. —  George 
a.  Vest. 

PANSY  BLOSSOM. 

Of  all  tlie  bonny  buds  that  blow 

In  fair  or  cloudy  weather ; 

Of  all  the  flowers  that  come  and  go 

The  full  twelve  months  together, 

This  little  j)urple  pansy  brings 

Thoughts  of  the  saddest,  sweetest  tilings. 

I  had  a  little  lover  once 

Wlio  used  to  bring  me  posies ; 

His  eyes  were  blue  as  hyacinths, 

His  cheeks  as  red  as  roses ; 

And  everybody  used  to  praise 

His  pretty  looks  and  winsome  ways. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  205 

,-# 

The  girls  wlio  went  to  school  with  me 

Made  little  jeah)iis  speeches, 
Because  he  brought  nie  loyally 

His  biggest  plums  niid  peaches, 
And  always  at  the  door  would  wait 
To  cany  home  my  book  aiul  slate. 

They  couldn't  see,  with  pout  and  fliug, 

The  mighty  fascination 
About  that  little  crooked-nose  thing 

To  cause  such  admiration  ! 
As  if  there  wer'n't  a  dozen  girls 
With  bluer  eyes  and  longer  curls  I 

And  this  I  knew  as  well  as  they, 

And  never  could  see  clearly, 
Why  more  than  Marion  or  May 

I  should  be  loved  so  dearly. 
And  so  I  asked  him,  why  was  this, 
He  only  answered  with  a  kiss. 

And  so  I  teased  him,  "  Tell  me  why, 

I  want  to  know  the  reason." 
Then  from  a  flower  bed  close  by — 

The  pansies  were  in  season — 
He  plucked  and  gave  a  flower  to  me 
With  sweet  and  simple  gravity. 

"The  gaiden  is  in  bloom,"  he  said, 

*••  With  lilies  pale  and  tender, 
With  roses  and  verbenas  red, 

And  fuchsias'  purple  splendor, 
But  over  and  above  the  rest 
This  little  heart's-ease  suits  me  best." 

"  Am  I  your  little  heart's-ease  then  ?  " 

I  asked  witli  sudden  pleasure. 
He  answered  yes,  and  yes  again, 

Heart's-ease  and  dearest  treasure. 
That  the  big  round  world,  and  all  the  sea, 
Held  nothinor  lialf  so  sweet  as  me. 


206  READINGS,  llECTfATIONS, 

I  listened  with  a  pleased  delight, 
Too  rare  for  words  to  capture, 

Nor  ever  dreamed  what  sudden  blight 
Would  come  to  chill  my  rapture. 

Could  I  foresee  the  tender  bloom 

Of  pansies,  round  a  little  tomb? 

Life  holds  some  stern  experience, 

As  most  of  us  discover, 
And  I've  had  other  losses 

Since  first  I  lost  that  little  lover; 
But  oh,  this  purple  pansy  brings 
Thoughts  of  the  saddest,  sweetest  things. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  S.  S.  COX. 

When  Samuel  S.  Cox  passed  out  from  among  men 
into  the  endless  shadow  of  that  mystery  we  call  death, 
it  was  as  if  the  evening  star  had  slipped  from  tired 
bands  and  fallen  to  shine  no  more.  And  what  shall 
we  say  of  him  now  that  he  is  gone  ? 

The  scope  and  character  of  his  achievements  differ 
from  those  of  most  men  we  term  great.  Nearly  all 
great  men  have  accomplished  greatness  by  persistent 
effort  along  some  special  line  of  thought  or  endeavor. 
He  was  remarkable  rather  for  the  versatility  of  his 
thought  and  the  diversity  of  his  endeavor.  He  was 
a  scliolar  of  extensive  research  and  splendid  erudi- 
tion :  he  was  an  autlior  whose  books  enchant  with 
bewitching  description  and  sparkle  with  noble  gems 
of  tliouglit.  He  was  a  statesman  of  unsullied  patri- 
otism nnd  comprehensive  grasp.  He  was  an  orator 
whose  scimitar  flashed  at  the  front  of  fiersect  debate, 
and  wliose  eloquence  swayed  tlie  multitude  as  storm- 
winds  I  lie  forests.  Ho  was  an  ambassador  wliose 
culture,  grave  and  orentle  breeding  made  liim  a  favor- 
ite, and  whose  skill  in  diplomacy  won  him  respect 
while  it  dignified  the  Republic.  And  then  how  genial 
and  companionable  he  was  I    How  full  of  life — of  the 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  207 

glad,  rollicking  joy  of  life  !  lie  sometimes  seemed  a 
very  boy,  scattering  joy  and  snnshine  along  the  way. 

But  when  sorrow  folded  her  pallid  wings  and 
brooded  about  the  hearts  of  those  he  loved,  how  gen- 
tle he  was!  In  Ids  presence  sadness  seemed  less  sad. 
and  a  softer  light  crept  in  among  the  shadows,  foi- 
there  was  in  his  speech  and  act  sometliing  so  like  tlie 
delicate  toucii  of  woman's  liand  jind  I  lie  melting 
music  of  woman's  speech.  Such  was  the  m:ni  we 
loved!  and  we  loved  him  all  tlie  more,  because  we 
knew  that  behind  this  native  gentleness  was  the  strong 
masculine  man,  familiar  with  the  phih>sophies  of  books 
and  trained  to  the  responsibilities  of  great  aHairs,  who, 
when  occasion  required,  could  be  stern,  rugged,  obsti- 
nate, almost  vengeful. 

Such  was  the  man  we  lament.  lie  lived  a  pure,  un- 
selfish, and  useful  life;  and  lie  goes  away  into  the 
mystic  summer  land,  leaving  behind  him  a  great  name, 
and  taking  with  him  the  blessing  of  his  race.  He 
went  away  without  thought  of  fear,  bearing  a  sweet 
message  from  the  worhl  to  those  who  should  greet 
him  in  the  great  beyond. —  IK  J.  Stone. 


GETTYSBURG. 

The  sun  of  Gettysburg  rose  on  the  first  of  Jnly  and 
saw  the  army  of  the  gi'ay  already  advancing  in  line 
of  battle ;  the  army  of  the  blue  hasieidng  eagerly 
forward  to  this  point ;  and  the  unquailing  lines  so 
long  arrayed  against  each  other,  stood  face  to  face. 
Once  more  the  inexpressible  emotions  of  yearning 
memory,  of  fond  affection,  of  dread  foreboding,  of 
high  hopes,  of  patriotic  enthusiasm  and  stern  resolve 
swept  for  a  moment  over  thousands  of  brave  hearts, 
and  the  next  instant  the  overwhelming  storm  of  bat- 
tle burst.  For  three  long,  proud,  immortal  days  it 
raged  and  swayed,  the  earth  trembling,  the  air  quivei- 
ing,  the  sky  obscured  ;  with  shouting  cliarge,  and 
rattling  volley,  and  thundering:  cannonade  piling  the 


208  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

ground  with  bleeding  blue  Jind  gray.  Doubtful  the 
battle  hung  and  paused.  Then  a  formidable  bolt 
of  war  was  forged  on  yonder  wooded  height,  and 
launched  with  withering  blasts  and  roar  of  fire  against 
the  foe.  It  reached  and  pierced  the  flaming  line  of 
the  embattled  blue.  It  was  the  supreme  moment  of 
the  peril  of  the  Union — the  heroic  crisis  of  the  war. 
But  the  fiery  force  was  spent.  In  one  last  wild 
tumultuous  struggle,  brave  men  dashed  lieadlong 
against  men  as  brave,  and  the  next  moment  that 
awful  bolt  of  daring  courage  was  melted  in  the  fer- 
vent heat  of  an  equal  valor,  and  the  battle  of 
Gettysburg  was  fought. 

If  the  rising  sun  of  the  4th  of  July,  1863,  looked 
upon  a  sad  and  unwonted  scene,  a  desolated  battle- 
field, upon  which  the  combatants  upon  either  side 
had  been  American  citizens,  yet  those  combatants, 
could  they  have  seen  aright,  would  have  hailed  that 
day  as  more  glorious  than  ever  before.  For  from 
that  smoking  and  blood-drenched  field,  they  would 
have  seen  a  more  perfect  union  arising,  with  the  Con- 
stitution at  last  immutably  interpreted,  and  they 
would  have  heard  anew  the  immortal  pledge — govern- 
ment of  the  people,  for  the  people,  by  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth. 

The  great  question  was  settled.  Other  questions 
indeed  remain  which  will  greatly  try  our  wisdom  and 
our  patriotism.  But  they  will  be  appealed  to  the 
ordeal  of  battle  no  more,  they  will  be  settled  in  those 
peaceful,  popular  and  parliamentiiry  contentions 
which  befit  a  patriotic  and  intelligent  republican 
people.  Then  indeed  the  fleeting  angel  of  this  hour 
and  the  hallowed  spirits  of  this  consecrated  ground 
will  have  yielded  their  most  precious  benediction  ; 
and  in  the  field  of  Gettysburg  as  we  now  behold  it, 
the  blue  and  the  gray  blending  in  ha])py  harmony, 
like  the  mingling  lines  of  the  summer  landscape,  we 
may  see  the  radiant  symbol  of  the  triumphant  America 
of  our  pride,  our  liope,  and  our  joy. —  George  William 
Curtis, 


AND  IMPmiSONATIONS.  209 


JACK  FROST'S  LITTLE  SISTER. 

This  morning  when  all  the  rest  liad  gone  down, 

I  stood  by  the  window  to  see 
The  beautil'ul  pictures  which  there  in  the  night 

Jack  Frost  had  been  making  for  me. 

There  were    mountains  and   mills  and  bridges  and 
boats, 

Some  queer-looking  houses  and  trees, 
A  hammock  that  swung  by  itself  in  the  air, 

And  a  giant  cut  off'  at  the  knees. 

Then  there  was  a  steeple  so  crooked  and  high, 

I  w^as  tliinking  it  surely  must  fall, 
When  right  down  below  it  I  liappened  to  spy 

The  h)veliest  thing  of  them  all  — 

The  cutest  and  cunningest  dear  little  girl, 

I  looked  at  her  hard  as  I  could; 
And  she  stood  there  so  dainty,  and  looked  back  at 
me 

In  a  little  white  ulster  and  hood. 

"  Good  morning,"  I  whispered,  for  all  in  a  flash 
I  knew  'twas  Jack  Frost's  little  sister ; 

I  was  so  glad  to  have  her  come  visiting  me, 
I  reached  up  quite  softly  and  kissed  her. 

There  I — can  you  believe  it  ? — the  darling  was  gone. 
Killed  dead  in  that  one  little  minute  ! 

I  never  once  dreamed  that  a  kiss  would  do  that. 
Nor  could  there  be  any  hjirm  in  it. 

But  I  am  so  sorry  !  for  though  I  luive  looked 
Fifty  times  at  the  window  since  then, 

Half  hoping  to  see  her  once  more,  yet  I  know 
She  never  can  come  back  airain. 


210  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

And  it  may  be  foolish,  but  all  through  the  day 
I  have  felt — and  I  knew  that  I  should — 

Just  as  if  I  had  killed  her,  that  dear  baby-girl 
In  a  little  white  ulster  and  hood. 

Youth'' 8  Companion, 


A  DEMOCRACY  HATEFUL   TO  PHILIP. 

There  are  those  among  you,  Athenians,  who  think 
to  confound  a  speaker  by  asking  liini,  *'  What,  ihen, 
is  to  be  done  ?  "  To  which  1  might  reply, 
''Nothing  that  you  are  doing ;  ever^'thing  tliat  you 
leave  undone  !  "  And  it  would  be  an  apt,  a  true 
reply.  But  I  will  be  more  explicit,  and  may  tliese 
men,  so  ready  to  question,  be  equally  ready  to  act! 

In  the  first  })lace,  Athenians,  admit  the  incontest- 
able fact  that  Philip  has  violated  liis  treaties  and  de- 
clared war  against  you.  On  that  point  let  us  have 
no  further  crimination  or  recrimination.  And  then 
admit  the  fact  that  he  is  the  mortal  enemy  of  Athens, 
of  its  very  soil,  of  all  within  its  walls — ay,  of  those 
even  who  most  flatter  themselves  that  they  are  high 
in  his  good  graces.  What  Philip  most  fears  and 
abhors  is  our  libert}',  our  free  democratic  system. 
For  the  destruction  of  tliat  all  his  snares  are  laid,  all 
his  projects  are  shaped. 

Is  he  not  consistent  in  this?  Truly,  he  is  well 
aware  that  though  he  should  subjugate  all  the  rest 
of  Greece,  In's  conquest  would  be  insecure  so  long  as 
your  democracy  should  stand.  Well  does  lie  know 
that  should  he  experience  one  of  those  reverses  to 
which  the  lot  of  humanity  is  so  liable,  it  would  be 
into  your  arms  that  all  of  those  nations  now  forcibly 
held  under  his  yoke  would  rush.  Is  there  a  tyrant 
to  drive  back?  Athens  is  in  the  field!  Is  there  a 
people  to  be  enfnnichised  ?  Lo.  Athens,  j)rompt  to 
aid!  What  wonder,  then,  that  Philip  should  be  im- 
patient so  long  as  Atlienian  liberty  is  a  s])y  upon  Ins 
evil  days?     Be  sure,  O  my  countrymen,  that    Philip 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  211 

is  your  irreconcilable  foe  ;  that  it  is  against  Athens 
he  musters  all  liis  armaments;  against  Athens  all  his 
sclienies  are  laid. 

What,  then,  as  wise  men  convinced  of  tliese  trutlis, 
ougiit  you  to  do?  What  but  to  shake  off  your  fatal 
lethargy,  contribute  according  to  your  means,  sum- 
mon your  allies  to  contribute  and  take  measures  to 
maintain  the  troops  already  under  arms,  so  that  if 
Pliilip  has  an  army  prepared  to  attack  and  subjugate 
all  the  Greeks,  you  may  have  an  army  ready  to  suc- 
cor them  and  to  save  ?  Tell  me  not  of  the  trouble 
and  expense  wliich  this  will  involve.  I  grant  it  all. 
l>ut  consider  the  dangers  that  beset  you,  and  how 
muchjn^u  will  be  the  gainers  by  engaging  heartily  at 
once  in  the  general  cause. 

Verih^  should  some  god  assure  you  that  however 
inert  and  unconcerned  you  might  remain,  yet  in  the 
end  you  sliould  not  be  molested  by  Philip,  still  it 
wouhl  be  ignominious  (bear  witness.  Heaven  !),  it 
would  be  beneath  you,  beneath  the  dignity  of  your 
State,  beneath  the  glory  of  your  ancestors,  to  sacrifice 
to  your  own  selfish  repose  the  interests  of  all  the  rest 
of  Greece.  Rather  would  I  perish  than  recommend 
such  a  course.  Let  some  other  man  urge  it  upon  you, 
if  lie  will ;  and  listen  to  him,  ye,  if  you  can  ! 

liut  it  my  sentiments  are  yours,  if  3'ou  foresee,  as 
I  do,  that  the  more  we  leave  Philip  to  extend  his 
conquests,  the  more  we  are  fortifying  an  enemy 
whom,  sooner  or  later,  we  must  cope  with,  why  do  you 
iiesitate  ?  Wliat  wait  you  ?  When  will  you  put  forth 
your  strength  ?  Wait  you  the  constraint  of  necessity  ? 
What  necessity?  Can  there  be  a  more  pressing  one 
l'.>r  freemen  than  the  prospect  of  dishonor?  Do  you 
wait  for  that?  It  is  here  already;  it  presses,  it 
weighs  on  us  even  now.  Now,  did  I  say?  Long 
>iiice  was  it  before  us,  face  to  face.  Truly,  there  is 
still  another  necessity  in  reserve — the  necessity  of 
slaves — subjugation,  blows,  and  stripes.  Wait  you  for 
them?  'Ilie  gods  forbid!  The  very  Avords  are  in 
this  place  an  indignity  I — Demo8the7ie8, 


212  HEAUiyG^i,  U  EC  IT  AT  IONS, 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 

The  play  is  done — tlie  curtain  drops, 

Slow  fjillino;  to  the  prompter's  bell; 
A  moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around  to  say  farewell. 
It  is  an  irksome  Avord  and  task  ; 

And  when  he's  hiughed  and  said  his  say, 
He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A  face  that's  anything  but  gay. 

One  word  ere  yet  the  evening  ends — 

Let's  close  it  with  a  parting  rhyme. 
And  pledge  a  hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  tlie  merry  Christmas-time; 
On  life's  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts 

Tliat  fate  ere  long  shall  bid  you  play ; 
Good  night ! — with  honest,  gentle  hearts, 

A  kindly  greeting  go  alway  ! 

Good  night  I — I'd  say,  the  griefs,  the  joys, 

Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page. 
The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  but  repeated  in  our  age  ; 
I'd  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain  than  those  of  men- 
Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 

At  forty-five  played  o'er  again. 

I'd  say  \\Q  suffer  and  we  strive 

Not  less,  nor  more,  as  men  tlian  boys — 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty -five 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys  ; 
And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 
Pj-ay  Heaven  that  earl}'  love  and  truth 

May  never  wholly  pass  away. 


AND  UIPERSONATIONS.  213 

And  ill  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I'd  say  how  fate  ma}'  change  and  shift — 
The  prize  be  sometimes  witli  tlie  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift; 
The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

Tlie  great  man  be  a  vulgar  clown, 
The  knave  be  lifted  over  all. 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave! 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 

Be  weeping  at  lier  darling's  grave  ? 
We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

Tliat  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 
That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That's  free  to  give  or  to  recalL 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit — 

Who  brono-ht  him  to  that  mirtli  and  state? 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit. 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate  ; 
Wlio  bade  the  mud  from  Dives'  wheel 

To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 
Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we'll  kneel. 

Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn  in  life's  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed— 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a  forfeit  chance. 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled ; 
Amen ! — whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent. 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 
Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part. 

And  bow  before  the  awful  will. 
And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart ; 


214  I:L\1  DINGS,  liKCITATIONS, 

Who  misses,  or  who  wins,  the  prize, 
Go,  lose  oi"  conquer  as  you  can; 

But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  ri^e. 
Bo  each,  pray  God,  a  gentleman. 

A  gentleman,  or  old  or  young 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays); 
The  sacred  cliorus  first  was  sung 

Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days  ; 
The  shepherds  heard  it  overliead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  ; 
Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentlemen. 

My  song  save  this  is  little  worth; 

I  lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 
And  wish  you  health  and  love  and  mirth. 

As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas  tide ; 
As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends  our  carol  still — 
Be  peace  on  eartli — be  peace  on  earth 


To  men  of  gentle  will, 


Wm.  M.   Thackeray, 


BRUTUS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CiESAR. 

{Prize  Selection  at  the  N.  Mo.  Normal,  1891.) 

Romans,  countiTuieii,  and  lovers  !  hear  me  foj>jny 
cause,  and  be  sil^t,  that  you  nia^  hear:  beKSvooe 
for  mine  lienor,  and  liave  respect  to  mine  honor,  that 
you  may  believe :  ciiUiailS.  nie  in  your  wisdom,  and 
ikiViikayour  senses,  tliat  you  may  the  \)^itei>  judge. 

If  theie  be  an}^  in  this  assembly,  any  dear  friend 
jf  Ciesar's,  to  liim  I  sa}-  th;it  Brutus's  love  to  Ca3sar 
was  no  less  than  l»is.  If,  then,  that  friend  demand 
why  Brutus  rose  against  Csesar,  tliis  is  ni}^  finswer: 
Not  that  I  loved  Ca3sar  less  but  that  I  lovp.d  Rome 
more. 


AND  IMPSHSONATIONS.  215 

Had  you  rather  Caesar  were  living,  and  die  all 
slaves,  than  that  Caesar  were  dead,  to  live  all  free- 
men ? 

As  Csesar  loved  me,  I  weep  for  him  ;  as  lie  was 
fortunate,  I  rejoice  at  it;  as  he  was  valiant,  1  honor 
him;  but  as  he  was  ambitious,  I  slew  him.  There  is 
tears,  for  his  love  ;  joy,  for  his  fortune ;  honor,  for 
his  valor  ;  and  death,  for  his  ambition. 

Who  is  here  so  base,  that  would  be  a  bondman  ? 
If  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is 
here  so  rude,  that  would  not  be  a  Roman  ?  If  any, 
speak;  for  him  have  I  offended.  Who  is  here  so 
vile,  that  will  not  love  his  country  ?  If  any,  speak  ; 
for  him  have  I  offended.  I  pause  for  a  reply. — [Citi- 
zens cri/  out^  "  None^  Brutus — none  1 "] — None  !  Then 
none  have  I  offended. 

I  have  done  no  more  to  Csesar  than  you  shall  do  to 
Brutus.  The  question  of  his  death  is  enrolled  in  the 
Capitol ;  his  glory  not  extenuated,  wherein  he  was 
worthy ;  nor  his  offences  enforced,  for  which  he 
suffered  death. 

[Enter  Antony  and  others  tvith  Cesar's  hodi/.'] 

Here  comes  his  body,  mourned  by  Mark  Antony ; 
who,  though  he  had  no  hand  in  his  death,  shall  re- 
ceive the  benefit  of  his  dying — a  place  in  the  com- 
monwealth :  as  which  of  you  shall  not  ? 

With  this  I  depart :  That,  as  I  slew  my  best  lover 
for  the  good  of  Rome,  I  have  the  same  dagger  for 
myself,  when  it  shall  please  my  country  to  need 
my  deatli. — Shakespeare. 


AUTUMN. 

These  lovely  days  of  autumn, 
So  swiftly  gliding  by, 

May  teach  us,  friends,  a  lesson, 
If  to  learn  it  we  will  try. 


216  BE  A  DINGS,  UECITATIONS, 

» 
How  beautiful  the  forests, 

With  tlieir  varied  tints,  that  vie 
With  the  changing  hues  of  sunset 

When  tl»e  ck)uds  are  floating  high! 

Could  the  biting  frosts  of  auttimn 
To  the  wood  such  beauty  bring. 

If  the  leaves  liad  not  been  growing 
Through  the  summer  and  the  spring? 

Would  tiie  sunset's  dying  glory 
Seem  to  us  so  passing  fair, 

If  tlie  thunderstorms  of  summer 
Had  not  purified  the  air? 

Now  your  spring  of  life  is  passing, 
Soon  the  summer  will  be  liere ; 

May  its  storms  but  serve  to  purify 
The  spirit's  atmosphere  ! 

May  the  tender  leaves  of  virtue 
With  unfailing  vigor  grow, 

Telling  of  a  life  within  you. 

Which  the  world  can  never  know. 

Then  Avill  autumn  come  upon  you 
Like  the  autumn  that  we  see 

Calm  and  radiant  with  the  promise 
Of  another  life  to  be  ! 

8.  U.  Dent. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATE? 

What  constitutes  a  State  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud,  witli  spires  and  turrets  crowned; 

Not  bays  and  broad-arm  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride  I 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts. 


AND  IMPEliSOJy/ATWNf-i.  217 

Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No  !     3Ien — liigh-minded  men — 
Willi  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den. 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude  ; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain; 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blov/, 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain. 

These  constitute  a  state  ; 
And  sovereign  law,  that  state's  collected  will, 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress  :   crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown. 
The  fiend  discretion  like  a  vapor  sinks; 

And  e'en  the  all-dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  tills  heaven-loved  isle  ; 
Than  Lesbos  fairei',  and  the  Cretan  shore! 

No  more  shall  Fieedom  s]nile? 
Shall  Britons  languish  and  be  men  no  more? 

Since  all  must  life  resign. 
Those  sweet  rewaids  which  decorate  the  brave 

'Tis  folly  to  decline. 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Sir  William  Jones* 

BABY  BOYS. 

I  can't  see  what  our  baby  boy 

Is  dood  for,  anyway  ; 
He  don't  know  how  to  walk  or  talk, 

Pie  don't  know  how  to  play. 
He  tears  up  ev'ry  single  zing 

He  possibly  tan  ; 
He  even  tried  to  break,  one  day. 

Mamma's  bestest  fan. 

He's  al'ays  tumblin'  'bout  ze  floor, 
An'  gives  us  awful  scares  ; 


1.8  READINGS,  IIKCITATIONS, 

And  when  lie  goes  to  beJ  at  night 

He  never  s:iy.s  his  jn-iuers. 
On  Sunthw,  too,  lu-  musses  np 

My  go-to-niee;  in'  clolhes. 
And  onee  I  foinid  him  liaid  at  work 

A  pinchin'  Dolly'.?  nose. 

Ze  ozzer  dny  zat  naughty  hoy 

— Now  what  yon  s'[)Ose  yon  zhik? — 
Upset  a  dreat  big  bottle 

Of  my  papa's  writin'  ink. 
An'  stead  of  kyin'  dood  ami  hard, 

As  course  he  ouglit  to  done, 
He  laughed,  ;ind  crowed,  and  kicked  his  feet 

As  zousfh  he  son  oh  t  'twas  fun. 

He  even  tries  to  reac;h  np  high 

An'  i)ull  zings  oft'  ze  slielf. 
An'  he's  al'ays  want  in'  you  of  course, 

Jus  when  you  wants  yonself. 
I  rather  dess,  I  really  do. 

For  how  he  pulls  my  inrls. 
Boy  babaies  was  made  a  pur[K)se, 

For  to  'noy  us  little  dirls. 

An'  I  wish  zere  wasn't  mi  such  zings 

As  naughty  baby  boys — 
Why  !  wh}',  zats  him  akyin'  now, 

He  makes  a  dreful  noise 
I  dess  I  better  run  and  see 

For  lie  lias — boo-hoo-hoo  ! 
Fell  down  ze  stairs  and  killed  himself — 

Whatever  shall  I  do  ! 


GLAUCUS  IN  THE  ROMAN  ARENA. 

"Bring  forth  the  lion  and  Glaucus  the  Atlienian  !  " 
slionted  the  people  louder  than  ever. 

(ilaucus  and  Olinihus  had  been  placed  together  in 
that  gloomy  and  narrow  cell  in  which  the  criminals 


AND  niPERSONATIONS.  219 

of  the  Arena  awaited  their  hist  and  fearful  struggle. 
The  religion  of  the  one,  the  pride  of  the  other,  tlie 
conscious  innocence  of  botli,  elevated  tlie  victim  into 
tlie  hero. 

"Hark!  hearcst  thou  tliat  shout?''  said  Olinthus. 

'•  I  hear ;  my  heart  grows  sick  ;  the  gods  support 
me  ! " 

'•  The  gods !  O  rash  young  man,  in  this  hour 
recognise  only  the  one  God  ! "" 

"  Hush  !  already  they  are  clamoring  for  our 
blood !  " 

"  O  Pleaven  !  "  cried  the  fervent  Olinthus,  "  I 
tremble  not — I  rejoice  that  tlie  [U'ison-house  shall 
soon  be  broken." 

The  door  swung  gr;itingly  back— the  gleam  of 
spears  shot  along  tlie  walls. 

"  Glaucus  the  Athenian,  tliy  time  is  come;  the 
lion  awaits  thee." 

*' I  am  ready.  Olinthus,  brother,  bless  me — and 
farewell  I " 

The  Chrisiian  clasped  tlie  young  heathen  to  his 
breast — he  kissed  his  cheek  and  forehead — he  wept 
aloud. 

Glaucus  tore  himself  away. 

"  Courage  !  "  said  one  ;  *'  thou  art  young  and  active. 
They  give  tliee  a  weapon,  despair  not,  and  thou 
mayst  yet  conquer  !  " 

And  now  when  the  Greek  saw  the  eyes  of  ten 
thousand  Romans  upon  him,  all  fear  was  gone.  A 
red  and  haughty  flush  spread  over  the  paleness  of 
his  features,  and  he  stood,  the  very  incarnation,  vivid 
and  corporeal,  of  the  valor  of  his  Land — at  once  a 
hero  and  a  god  ! 

The  lion  had  been  kept  without  food  for  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  was  now  moving  about  its  cage  with 
a  restless  uneasiness  which  the  keeper  attributed  to 
the  pangs  of  hunger.  Yet  its  bearing  seemed  rather 
that  of  fear  than  of  rage ;  its  roar  was  painful  and 
distressed ;  it  hung  its  head — snuffed  the  air  through 


22,0  JEA  DINGS,  EECITATIONS, 

tlie  bars — hi}'  down — started  again — and  again  ut- 
tered its  wild  and  far-resounding  cries. 

Tiie  ci'cwd  became  ini[)atieiit.  The  Editor  slowly 
gave  the  >i,^"ii.  Tlie  keeper  cautiously  removed  the 
grating,  and  tlie  lion  leaped  forth  with  a  mighty  and 
glad  roar  (»f  release. 

Glauctis  had  bent  his  limbs  so  as  to  give  himself 
the  lirmest  postuie  at  the  expected  rush  of  the  lion. 
With  his  small  ajid  shining  weapon  raised  on  high,  he 
stood  waiting  the  attack.  But,  to  tlie  unutterable 
astonishment  of  all,  the  beast  seemed  not  even  aware 
of  his  presence.  At  half-speed  it  circled  ronnd  and 
round  the  arena,  turning  its  vast  head  from  side  to 
side  with  an  anxious  gaze  as  if  seeking  some  aventie 
only  of  escape  ;  once  it  tried  to  leap  up  the  parapet 
that  divided  it  from  the  audience  ;  failing,  it  clrooped 
its  tail  along  the  sand,  and  crept  with  a  low  moan 
into  its  cage. 

The  rage  of  the  populace  at  tins  disappointment 
wixs  fast  becoming  uncontrollable,  when  a  loud  cry- 
was  heard  at  one  of  the  entrances  of  the  arena.  Th6 
crowd  gave  way,  and  Snllust  stiddenly  appeared  on 
the  senatorial  benches.  Half  exhausted,  he  shouted  ; 
"Remove  the  Athenian, — haste!  he  is  innocent! 
Arrest  Arbaces  the  Egyj)tian.  He  is  the  murderer 
of  Apa3cides ! " 

"  Art  thou  mad,  O  Sallust !  What  means  this 
raving?"- 

''Remove  the  Athenian  !  Quick!  or  his  blood  be 
on  your  head.  Room  there ! — Stand  back  !  People 
of  Pompeii.  Arbaces  is  the  murderer!  Mere  is  the 
witness,  (^ah'iius,  the  ])riest." 

'•A  niiiaclel  a  miracle!"  shouted  the  people. 
•'  Arftact's  to  the  lion  !  Arbaces  to  the  lion  ! " 

!'he  maddened  crowd,  thirsty  for  blood,  were  rush- 
\\:<r  upon  the  Egyptian,  whose  eyes  at  that  moment, 
bcncid  shooting  above  the  Ampliitheatrc  a  strange 
and  awfid  apparition.  He  stretched  his  hand  on 
hioh.  jind  shouted  with  a  voice  of  tiumder  :  *'  Behold, 
how  the  gods  protect  the  guiltless!     'i'he  fires  of  the 


A^'I)  IM PEiiSOI'iATIOXS.  J2l 

avenging  Orcus  burst  forth  against  the  false  witness 
of  my  accusers  !" 

The  eyes  of  the  crowd  followed  tlie  gesture  of  the 
Egyptian,  and  beheld,  with  dismay,  vast  vapors  shoot- 
ing from  the  summit  of  Vesuvius,  followed  by  fires 
that  blazed  with  an  intolerable  glare  !  There  was  a 
dead,  heart-sunken  silence — through  which  there 
suddenly  broke  the  roar  of  the  crouching  lion — so 
typical  of  the  coming  ruin.  Then  there  arose  on 
high  the  universal  shriek  of  women.  Men  stared  at 
each  other  and  were  dumb;  they  felt  the  earth  shake 
beneath  their  feet,  and  beheld  the  mountain-cloud 
rolling  toward  them,  dark  and  rapid,  like  a  torrent. 

No  longer  thought  the  crowd  of  justice  or  Arbaces. 
Each  turned  to  fly — trampling  recklessly  over  the 
fallen — amidst  groans,  and  oaths  and  prayers,  the 
enormous  crowd  poured  forth.  Whither  should  they 
fly?  But  darker,  and  larger,  and  mightier  spread 
the  cloud  above  them — a  sudden  and  ghastly  Night 
rushing  upon  the  realm  of  Noon. — Adapted  from 
Bulwer's  Last  Days  of  Pompeii. 


NYDIA. 

In  proportion  as  the  blackness  gathered  did  the 
lightnings  around  Vesuvius  increase  in  their  vivid  and 
scorching  glare.  In  the  pauses  of  the  showers  you 
heard  the  rumbling  of  the  earth  beneath,  and  the 
groaning  waves  of  the  tortured  sea;  or,  lower  still, 
the  grinding  and  hissing  murmur  of  the  escaping 
gases  through  the  chasms  of  the  distant  mountain. 
Wild,  haggard,  ghastly  with  supernatural  fears, 
fugitive  passed  fugitive,  crowds  encountered  crowds, 
but  without  the  leisure  to  speak,  consult,  or  advise. 

Through  this  awful  scene  did  Glaucus  make  his 
way,  accompanied  by  lone  and  Nydia,  the  blind  girl. 
Suddenly,  a  rush  of  hundreds,  in  their  path  to  the 
sea,  swept  by  them.  Nydia  was  torn  from  the  side 
of  Glaucus,  who,  with  lone,  was  borne  rapidly  on- 


222  READINGS,  IIECITATIONS, 

ward ;  and  when  the  crowd  liad  passed,  Nytlia  waf? 
still  separated  from  tlieir  side.  Glaiiciis  shouted  lier 
name.  No  answer  came.  They  retraced  their  steps 
in  vain.  Tlieir  friend,  tlieir  preserver,  was  lost. 
Hitherto  Nydia  had  been  their  guide.  Her  l>lindness 
rendered  the  scene  familiar  to  her  ah>ne.  Accus- 
tomed  through  a  perpetual  night  to  thread  the  wind- 
ings of  the  city,  she  had  led  them  Unerringly  towards 
the  sea-shore  by  which  they  had  resolved  to  hazard 
an  escape.     Now  which  way  could  they  wend? 

*'  Alas  !  "  murmured  lone,  "  I  can  go  no  farther  ;  my 
steps  sink  among  the  scorching  cinders.  Fly,  Glau- 
cus,  and  leave  me  to  my  fate." 

"Blessed  lightning !  See,  lone,  see  I  the  portico  of 
the  Temple  of  Fortune  is  before  us.  Let  us  creep 
beneath  it  for  protection  from  the  showers." 

Meanwhile  Nydia,  when  separated  by  the  throng 
from  Glaucus  and  lone,  had  in  vain  endeavored  to  re- 
gain them.  In  vain  she  raised  that  plaintivo  cry  so 
peculiar  to  the  blind  ;  it  was  lost  amidst  a  thousand 
shrieks  of  more  selfish  terror.  Weak,  yet  fearless, 
supported  by  but  one  wish,  she  was  a  very  emblem 
of  Psyche  in  her  wanderings;  of  Hope  walking 
through  tlie  Valley  of  the  Shadow.  On  she  moved 
toward  the  sea-shore.  At  length  a  group  of  torch- 
bearers  rushing  full  against  her,  she  was  tlirowii 
down. 

*•  What !  "  said  a  voice.  *'  Is  this  the  brave  blind 
girl !  By  Bacchus,  it  is  !  Up !  My  Thessalian ! 
So,  so.  Are  you  hurt  ?  That's  well !  Come 
along  with  us  !     We  are  for  the  sliore  !  " 

"OSallust!  it  is  thy  voice  I  Glaucus — Glaucus! 
have  you  seen  him?" 

"No.  He  is  doubtless  out  of  the  city  by  this 
time.  The  god  who  saved  him  from  the  lion  will 
save  him  from  the  burning  mountain."  Just  then, 
Sosia  passed  with  a  torch,  and  its  light  falling  on  the 
face  of  Nydia,  he  recognized  the  Thessalian. 

"  What  avails  thy  liberty  now,  blind  girl  ?  "  said 
the  slave. 


AND  IMPEESONATIOZy^S.  223 

"  Who  art  thou  ?    Canst  thou  tell  me  of  Glaucus  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  I  saw  him  but  a  few  moments  since,  couched 
beneath  the    arch    of  the   Forum— dead   or    dying." 

Nydia  uttered  not  a  word :  she  slid  from  the  side 
of  Sallust ;  silently  she  glided  through  those  behind 
her  and  retraced  her  steps  to  the  city.  She  gained 
the  Forum — the  arch  !  She  stooped  down — she  felt 
around — she  called:  '•  GL'iucus— Glaucus  !  " 

A  weak  voice   answered,     '•  Who  calls  me?  " 

"  Arise  !  Follow  me  I  Take  my  hand !  Glaucus, 
thou  shalt  be  saved !  " 

Jn  wonder  and  sudden  hope,  Glaucus  arose — 
"  Nydia  still  ?     Ah  !  then,  thou  art  safe  !  " 

Half  leading,  half  carrying  lone,  Glaucus  followed 
his  guide.  After  many  pauses  and  incredible  per- 
leverance,  they  gained  tlie  sea.  In  darkness,  with 
>thers  escaping  the  destruction,  they  put  forth  to 
8ea.  Utterly  exhausted,  lone  slept  on  the  breast  of 
Rlaucus.  While  Nydia  lay  at  his  feet,  showers  of 
dust  and  ashes  fell  far  and  wide  into  the  waves  and 
scattered  the  spray  over  the  deck. 

Softly,  beautifully,  dawned  at  last  the  light  over 
the  trembling  deep.  In  tlie  silence  of  the  general 
t^leep,  Nydia  rose  gently.  She  bent  over  the  face  of 
Glaucus — timidly  and  sadly  she  kissed  his  brow  and 
wiili  her  hair  wiped  from  it  tlie  damps  of  the  night. 
'•  Miiy  tlie  gods  bless  you,  Athenian  I  May  you  be 
haj)[)y  with,  your  beloved  lone  I-^May  you  sometimes 
remember  Nydia!  Alas!  She  is  of  no  further  use 
on  earth  !  " 

Turning  away,  she  crept  slowly  along  by  the  plat- 
forms to  the  farther  side  of  the  vessel,  and  pausing, 
bent  low^  over  the  deep  ;  the  cool  spray  dashed  upward 
on  her  feverish  brow.  "  It  is  the  kiss  of  death," 
she  said — "  it  is  welcome  ! "  The  balmy  air  played 
through  her  waving  tresses.  She  put  them  from  her 
face,  and  raised  those  eyes — so  tender,  though  so  sight- 
less, to  the  sky  whose  soft  face  she  had  never  seen. 

''  Yes,  yes  !  "  she  said,  half  aloud,  "  I  have  saved  him 
—happy,  happy  thought !     It  is  the  last  glad  thought 


224  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

I  Ciiii  ever  know.  Oh  !  sacred  sea!  I  lieai  thy  voice 
invitingly — it  hath  a  freshening  and  joyous  call. 
Rest — rest — rest  I — there  is  no  other  Elysium  for  a 
heart  like  mine  !  " 

A  sailor  lialf  dozing  on  the  deck,  lieard  a  slight 
splash  on  the  waters.  Drowsily  he  looked  up  as  the 
vessel  bounded  merrily  on,  and  fancied  he  saw  some- 
thing white  above  the  wavjes  ;  but  it  vanished  in  an 
instant.  He  hiy  down  again,  and  dreamed  of  his 
liome  and  children.  When  GLiucusand  lone  awoke, 
their  first  thought  was  of  Nydia,  who  Avas  not  to  be 
found.  They  guessed  her  fate  in  silence,  and  drawing 
nearer  to  each  other,  wept  as  for  a  departed  sister. — 
Adapted  from  Bulwers  Lant  Bay  of  Pompeii, 


AT  -THE  LITERARY." 

Folks  in  town,  I  reckon,  thinks 
They  git  all  the  fun  they  ai^* 
Runnin'  loose  'round  I—  but,  'y  jinks  1 
We  got  fun,  and  fun  to  si)are 
Right  out  Itere  amongst  the  ash 
And  oak  timber  ever'where  ! 
Some  folks  else  kin  cut  a  dash 
'Sides  town-people,  don't  fergit! — 
'Specially  in  winter-time. 
When  they's  snow,  and  roads  is  fit. 
In  them  circumstances  Em 
Resignated  to  my  lot — 
Which  puts  me  in  mind  o'  what 
'Scalled  -The  Literary." 

Us  folks  in  the  conntry  sees 

Lots  ()'  fun  !  -  Take  s[)ellin '-school-, 

Er  ole  hoe-down  jamborees; 

Er  revivals;  er   ef  you'll 

Tackle  taffy-pullin's  you 

Kin  git  fun,  and  quite  a  few! — 

Same  with  huskin's.     r>nt  all  these 


AND  IMPEIilSONATJONS.  '225 

Kind  o'  frolicks  they  hain't  new 
liy  a  hundred  year  er  two, 
Cipher  on  it  as  you  please  I 
But  I'll  tell  you  what  I  jest 
Think  walks  over  all  the  rest — 
Any  way  it  suits  me  best, — 
TJiat's  ''The  Literar}'." 

First  they  started  it — ''  'y  gee  !  " 

Tliinks-says  J,  ''  This  settlement 

'Sgittin'  too  liigh-toned  fer  me  !  " 

But  when  all  begin  to  jine, 

And  I  heerd  Izory  went, 

I  jest  kind  o'  drapped  in  line 

Like  you've  seen  some  sandy,  thin, 

Scrawny  shoat  put  fer  the  crick 

Down  some  pig-trail  through  the  thick 

Spice-bresh,  where  the  whole  drove's  been 

'  Bout  six  weeks  '  fore  lie  i^ets  in ! 
"Can't  tell  nothin',"  I-says-e(>, 
"  '  Bout  it  tel  you  go  and  see 
TJieir  blame  '  Literary  ! '  " 

Very  hrst  night  I  was  there 

I  was  '  p'inted  to  be  what 

They  call  "-  Critic  "— so's  a  fair 

And  square  jedgment  could  be  got 

On  tiie  pieces  'at  was  read, 

And  on  the  debate, — "  Which  air 

Most  destructive  element. 

Fire  er  worter?"     Then  they  lied 

Compositions  on  "  Content," 

"  Death,"  and  "  Botany  ;  "  and  Tomps, 

He  read  one  on  "Dreenin  '  Swamps'* 

I  p'nounced  the  boss,  and  said, — 

"So  fer  'at's  the  best  thing  read 

In 'The  Literary!'" 

Then  they  sung  some — tel  I  called 

Order,  and  got  back  ag'in 

In  the  critic's  cheer,  and  hauled 


226  HEADINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

All  ()'  ihe  p'formers  in. 
Maiidy  Biizeiidiiie  read  one 
1  feigit;  and  Doc's  was  ^'  Thought;** 
And  Saiepty's,  hern  was  "  None 
Air  denied  'iit  knocks;"  and  Daut — 
Fayette  Strawnse's  little  niece — 
She  got  up  and  spoke  a  piece  : 
Then  Izory  she  read  hern — 
"  Best  thing  in  the  whole  concern," 
I-says-ee  ;  '•  now  le's  adjourn 
This  here  '  Literary  ! '  " 


They  was  some  contendin' — ^yit 
We  broke  up  in  harmony. 
Road  out-side  as  white  as  grit, 
And  as  slick  as-  slick  could  be ! — 
Fd  fetclied  'Zory  in  my  sleigh, 
And  I  had  a  lieap  to  say 
Drivin'  back — in  fact,  I  driv 
'  Way  around  the  old  north  way, 
Where  the  Daubenspeckses  live. 
'  Zory  allns — Tore  that  night — 
Never  '  [)eared  to  feel  jest  right 
In  my  C()m})any. — You  see, 
On'y  thing  on  earth  saved  me 

Was  that  "  Literary.  " 
James  Wkitcomb  Riler/,  in  Century  Magazine. 


SENT  BACK  BY  THE  ANGELS. 

{Prize  Selection  at  North  Mo.  State  Normal,  Jan.,  1890.) 

"  A  little  bit  queer — my  Mary  ! 
Her  roof  not  quite  in  repair  !  " 
And  it's  that  you  think  with  a  nod  and  wink, 
As  you  sit  in  my  ejusy-o.hair ! 


AND  IMFKRSONATIONS.  227 

Drop  it,  1  say,  old  feller — 
Drop  it,  I  tell  you,  clo. 
Or  language,  1  doubt,  I  shall  soon  let  out 
Yd  raiher  uot  use  to  you. 

Shake  hands,  and  1  ax  your  pardon — 

'Twas  chaffing,  1  knowed  you  were  ; 
But  a  hint,  or  a  slur,  or  a  joke  on  her 

Is  a  thing  as  1  can't  abear. 

And  what  if  she  has  her  fancies, 

Why,  so  has  us  all,  old  chap ; 
Not  many'a  the  roof  as  is  regular  proof, 

If  a  bit  of  a  whim's  a  gap. 

She's  \ip  to  the  nines,  my  Mary — 

Lord  bless  her,  she  keeps  us  right ! 
And  it's  up  with  her  gown  and  the  house  scrubbed 
down, 

As  certain  as  Friday  night. 

Six  years  we  was  wed  and  over 

And  never  a  cradle  got, 
And  nowheie's,  I  swear,  a  more  dotinger  pair 

On  baby  and  liny  tot. 

So  when  of  a  winter  moining 

At  last  we  was  ma  and  i)a, 
No  royal  princess  had  the  welcome,  I  guess, 

As  our  little  stranger  had. 

And  didn't  my  Mary  bless  her ! 

Just  picter  her,  them  as  can, 
A  doin'  her  best  with  her  mother's  breast 

For  Alexandrina  Ann  ! 

For  tliat's  what  we  named  the  baby 

By  way  of  a  start  in  life, 
From  parties,  I  knew,  as  could  help  her  through, 

The  Queen  and  my  Uncle's  wife. 

And  wasn't  the  baby  feted! 
She  lay  in  her  bassinet 
With  ihuslin  and  lace  on  lier  tiny  face 


228  HEADING ti,  RECITATIONS, 

As  ever  growed  smaller  yet. 
But  it  wasn't  in  lace  or  coral 
To  bribe  her  lo  linger  here  ! 
I  looks  in  her  eyes, — "She's  off,"  I  sighs—* 
''  She's  off  to  Jier  proper  sp'ere." 

Here  treasures  was  all  around  her, 
But  she  was  too  wise  and  grave 

For  the  pug  on  the  slielf,  and,  as  big  as  herself, 
The  doll  as  her  grandma  gave. 
She  wanted  the  stars  for  playthings, 
Our  wonderful  six-weeks'  guest  ; 

So,  with  one  little  sigh,  she  closed  lier  eye, 
And  woke  on  a  hangeFs  breast. 

And  how  did  the  missis  take  it  ? 

Most  terrible  calm  and  mild  ; 
With  a  face  a'most  like  a  bloodless  ghost 

She  covered  the  sleeping  child. 

There  was  me  like  a  six-foot  babby 

A  blubberintj  \o\\<i  and  loud, 
While  she  sat  there  in  the  rocking-chair, 

A-sewing  the  little  shroud. 

I  couldn't  abide  to  see  it— 
The  look  in  lier  tearless  eye  ; 

I  touches  her  so,  and  I  wliispers  low, 
''  My  darlingest,  can't  you  cry?" 
Siie  gave  me  a  smile  for  answer, 
'J'hen  over  her  work  she  bowed, 

And  all  through  the  night  her  needle  bright 
Was  sewing  a  little  shroud. 

In  the  gray  of  a  winter  morning, 

Tlie  mite  of  a  coffin  came, 
P'lt  it  had  space,  O  Father  of  Grace, 

To  bury  a  mother's  heart ! 

Great  God  !  such  a  shaller  coffin, 

And  yet  so  awful  deep ! 
I  placed  it  there  by  the  poor  wife's  chair. 

And  I  thinks,  "  At  last  she'll  weep.'! 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  229 

But  she  rose  with  never  a  murmur. 
As  cam  as  a  specter  thin, 
And — waxy  and  coki  and  so  light  to  hold — ■ 
She  places  the  baby  in. 

Then,  moving  with  noiseless  footfall, 

She  reaches  from  box  and  slielf 
The  little  one's  mug  and  the  china  pug. 

And  the  doll  that  was  big  as  herself. 

Then — God  !    it  Avas  dreadful  to  watch  her— 

All  white  in  her  crape-black  gown, 
With  her  own  cold  hands  my  Mary  stands 

And  fastens  the  coffin  down. 

I  carried  the  plaything  coffin, 

Tucked  under  my  arm,  just  so  ; 
And  she  stood  there  at  tlie  head  of  the  stair, 

And  quietly  watched  us  go. 

So  parson  he  comes  in  his  night-gown, 

And  says  that  as  grass  is  man, 
And  earth  had  trust  of  the  pinch  of  dust 

That  was  Alexandrina  Ann. 

I  was  trying  to  guess  the  riddle 

I  never  could  answer  pat — 
What  the  wisdom  and  love  as  is  planning  aboTO 

Could  mean  by  a  life  like  tliat ; 

And  I'd  got  my  foot  on  the  doorstep, 

When,  scaring  my  mournful  dream. 
Shrill,  wild  and  clear,  there  tore  on  my  ear 

The  sound  of  a  maniac  scream. 

The  scream  of  a  raving  maniac. 

But,  Father  of  death  and  life  ! 
I  listened  and  knew,  the  madness  through 

The  voice  of  my  childless  wife. 

One  moment  I  clutched  and  staggered, 

Then  down  on  my  bended  knee. 
And  up  to  the  sky  my  wrestling  cry 

Went  up  for  my  girl  and  me. 


230  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

I  went  to  her  room  and  found  her ; 

She  sat  on  the  floor,  poor  soul ! 
Two  burning  streaks  on  Ijer  death-pale  cheeks, 

And  eyes  tiiab  were  gleeds  of  coal. 

And  now  she  would  shriek  and  shudder, 

And  now  slie  would  Luigli  aloud, 
And  now  for  a  while,  with  an  awful  smile, 

She'd  sew  at  a  little  shroud. 

Dear  Lord,  through  the  day  and  darkness. 
Dear  Lord,  tlirough  the  endless  night, 

I  sat  by  her  side,  while  she  shrieked  and  cried, 
And  I  thought  it  would  ne'er  be  light. 
And  still,  through  the  blackness  thronging 
With  shapes  that  was  dread  to  see, 

My  shuddering  cry  to  the  God  on  high 
Went  up  for  my  girl  and  me. 

At  last  through  the  winder,  morning 
Came  glimmering,  cold  and  })ale  ; 

And,  faint  but  clear,  to  my  straining  ear 
Was  carried  a  feeble  wail. 
I  went  to  the  door  in  wonder. 
And  there,  in  the  dawning  day. 

All  swaddled  and  bound  in  a  bundle  round, 
A  sweet  little  baby  lay. 

It  lay  on  tlie  frosty  doorstep, 

A  pert  little  two  months'  child; 
Dumfounded  and  slow,  I  raised  it  so, 

And  it  looked  in  my  face  and  smiled. 

And  so  as  I  kissed  and  loved  it, 

I  grajuly  growed  aware 
As  the  Father  in  bliss  had  sent  us  this. 

The  answer  to  wrestling  prayer. 

In  wonder  and  joy  and  worship. 
With  tears  that  were  soft  and  blest, 
I  carried  the  mite,  and,  still  and  white, 
I  laid  it  on  Mary's  breast. 


AND  IMPEESONATIONS.  231 

I  didn't  know  how  she'd  take  it, 
So  goes  on  an  artful  tack ; 
"The  little  'un  cried  for  hev  inother's  side. 
And  the  hangels  has  sent  her  hack  ! " 

My  God  !     I  shall  ne'er  forget  it, 

Though  spared  for  a  hundred  years — 
The  soft  delight  on  her  features  white, 

Tiie  rush  of  her  blissful  tears. 

The  eyes  that  was  hard  and  vacant 

Grew  wonderful  soft  and  mild. 
As  she  cries,  "  Come  rest  on  your  mammy's  breast, 

My  own  little  hangel  child." 

And  so  from  that  hour,  my  darling 
Grew  happy  and  strong  and  well ; 

And  the  joy  that  I  felt  as  to  God  I  knelt 
Is  what  I  can  noways  tell. 
There's  parties  as  sneers  and  tells  you 
There's  nothing  but  clouds  up  there  : 

I  answers  'em  so,  ''  There's  a  God  I  know. 
And  a  Father  that  heareth  prayer." 

And  what  if  my  Mary  fancies 

The  babe  is  a  child  of  liglit — 
Our  own  little  dear  sent  back  to  us  here  ? — 

And  mayn't  she  be  somewheres  right? 

Here,  Mary,  my  Darling,  Mary1 

A  friend  has  come  into  town  ; 
Don't  mind  her  nose  nor  changing  lier  clo'es, 

But  bring  us  the  hangel  down. 

Layighridge^  in  "  The  Voice  Magazine.^^ 


NAUGHTY  GIRL. 

I  don't  'spect  folks  think  I  look  so  very  purty  in 
this  dress.  I  don't  think  I  do  neither.  This  is  'bout 
the  worstest  dress  I  dot,  but  if  it  is  the  worstest 
dress  I  dot,  it's  lots  better  tlian   Mary  Lee's  Sunday 


232  HEADINGS,  UECITATIONS, 

dress.  lUit  then  my  pa's  lots  riclier'n  hern.  My  pa's 
dot  so  much  inoiiey  he  couUl  gist  throw  it  away  if  he 
wanted  to — but  he  don't  want  to,  and  1  don't  blame 
him  much  neither,  so  I  don't. 

Some  people  say  I  kin  speak  so  nice,  but  I  don't 
think  I  kin.  I'm  going  to  speak  a  wee  teeny  little  bit, 
and  let  you  see  how  1  spoke  my  piece  for  my  ma's 
preachers  t'huther  day.  Now  this  is  going  to  be  the 
way  what  I  spoke  my  piece. 

(Make  several  bows,  forget,  and  begin  again.  Make  gestures  in 
imitation  of  a  child.) 

"I  love  to  see  a  little  dog. 
And  pat  him  on  the  bead, 

So  prettily  he  wags  his  tail 
Whenever  he  is  fed. 

"  Some  little  dogs  are  very  good 

And  very  useful  too, 
And  do  you  know  that  they  will  do 

What  they  are  bid  to  do  ?  " 

Don't  'spect  you  think  that's  such  very  good 
speakin'.  'Tain't.  That's  about  the  very  worstest 
speakin'  I  kin  speak.  I  kin  speak  lots  better  than 
that,  for  a  man  told  me  I  could  speak  as  good  as  Mary 
Sanderson.  He  said  that  when  I  spoke  my  piece  what 
I  got  the  medal  on,  over  here  in  tins  big  red  brick 
school  house.  Mary  Sanderson  s^^eaks  in  New  York, 
and  pa  says  I  kin  go  and  hear  lier  speak  some  day  if 
I  don't  die  too  soon.     Do  you  all  know  her  ? 

Now  this  is  Jny  medal  piece. 

"  My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty. 

Of  thee  I  sing. 
Land  where  m}^  fathers  died, 
Land  of  tl»e  pilgrim's  pride. 
From  every  mountain  side 

Let  freedom  rinor. 


vlJVD  IMPERSOyATIONS,  233 

"My  native  country  thee, 
Land  of  tlie  noble  free, 

Tiiy  name  I  love. 
I  love  iliy  rocks  and  rills. 
Thy  woods  and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above." 

Now  that's  fine  speakin\ 

I  was  walking  down  the  street  the  other  day  and  I 
was  sa3du'  to  myself  I  don't  believe  I  have  such  very 
good  sense  anyhow — I  was  gist  thinkin'  that — and  I 
heard  some  one  talkin'  about  me,  so  I  went  back  to 
hear  what  they  was  snyin'.  And  what  do  you  think 
I  heard  them  say  ?  Tliey  says  that's  the  very  purtiest 
little  girl  in  this  town — and  they  meant  me.  T'ain't 
so  neither,  so  it  'taint.  I  think  I'm  the  very  ugliest 
girl  in  this  whole  town. 

My  ma's  a  Methodist,  and  when  Conference  comes 
you  ought  to  see  the  big  preachers  what  comes  to 
our  house.  They  come  and  stay  nearly  a  week,  and 
goodness!  how  much  they  do  eat.  One  of  them — the 
very  biggest  one  too — took  me  on  his  knee  and  said  I 
was  a  daisy.  I  gist  jumped  off  of  his  knee  and  said, 
Who  do  you  think  you  are  talkin'  'bout  anyway  ? 
Why,  you  ole  crank,  if  you  don't  watch  out  we'll  fire 
you  out  bodily.  You  bets  j^ou,  I  skeered  him  purty 
bad.  He  never  said  a  nuther  word  to  me,  you  bets 
you.     He's  dead  now,  and  I'm  so  glad. 

I  bet  you  don't  know  Sim.  He's  my  beau.  We 
have  to  hide  behind  the  rose-bush  every  night  and 
hear  my  sister  Jane  and  her  beau  spavkin'  in  the 
hammock,  so  we  kin  take  items.  Then  when  we  git 
big,  if  Sim  forgets,  I'll  know  liow.  Oh,  we've  got 
sparkin'  down  to  a  purty  fine  point. 

Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  and  get  on  my  new  dress,  and 
let  you  see  it.  This  is  'bout  the  worstest  dress  1  dot, 
but  I  could  have  lots  better  ones  if  I  wanted  'em,  hit- 
I  don't  wan't  want  'em.  I've  got  sense  enough  not 
to  want  things  I  can't  git. 


234  UEADIKCS,  RECITATIONS, 

That's  all  I  have  to  tell  you  so  I  guess  I'll  go. 
Good-bye. 

[Arranged  on  hearing  Miss  Lucia  Griffln  recite  "  The  Naughty 
GirU'] 


THE  WAY  TO  SLEEPTOWN. 

The  town  of  Sleeptown  is  not  far 

In  Timbuctoo  or  China, 
For  it's  right  near  by  in  Blinkton  county, 

In  the  state  of  Drowsylina ; 
It's  just  beyond  the  Thingumbob  hills, 

Not  far  from  Nodville  Center, 
But  you  must  be  drawn  thro'  the  Valley  of  Yawn, 

Or  the  town  you  cannot  enter, 
And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  tliey  say. 

That  baby  goes  to  Sleeptown ! 

He  starts  from  the  city  of  Odearme, 

Through  Boohoo  street  he  totters, 
Until  he  comes  to  Dontcry  Corners 

By  the  shore  of  the  Sleeping  Waters ; 
Then  he  comes  to  the  Johnny- Jump-Up  hills. 

And-  the  nodding  Toddlebom  mountains, 
And  straight  does  he  go  thro'  tlie  Vale  of  Heigho, 

And  drinks  from  the  Drowsy  Fountains. 
And  til  is  is  the  way, 
They  say,  they  say. 

That  baby  goes  to  Sleeptown ! 

By  Twilight  Path  tliro'  the  Nightcap  Hills 

The  little  feet  must  toddle. 
Thro'  the  dewy  gloom  of  Flyaway  Forest, 

By  the  drowsy  peaks  of  Noddle  ; 
And  never  a  sound  does  baby  hear, 

For  not  a  leaf  does  quiver. 
From  the  Little  Dream  Gap  in  the  Hills  of  Nap 

To  the  Snoozequehanna  River. 


AND  IMPEli DONATIONS,  235 

And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  tliey  say, 
That  baby  goes  to  Sleeptown ! 

Aways  he  flies  over  Bylow  Bridge, 

Through  LuUaby  Lane  to  wander, 
And  on  thro'  tlie  groves  of  Moonsliine  Valley 

By  the  hill  of  Wayoffj^onder ; 
And  then  does  the  fairies'  flying-horse 

The  sleepy  baby  take  up — 
Until  they  enter  at  Jumpoff  Center 
The  Peekaboo  Vale  of  Wakeup. 
And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  they  say. 
That  baby  comes  from  Sleeptown ! 

S.  F.  Foss. 


IMPH-M. 

Ye've  heard  hoo  the  de'il,  as  he  wauchel'd  thro'  Beith, 

Wr  a  wife  in  ilk  oxter,  an'  yen  in  his  teeth. 

When  some  yen  cried  oot,    "Willyetak'  mine  the 

morn?" 
He  wagg'd  his  auld  tail  while  he  cockit  his  horn, 

But  only  said,  "Imph-m  ;  " 

That  usefu'  word  "  Iraph-m  ;  " 
Wi'  sic  a  big  mouthf u',  he  couldna  say  Aye ! 

When  I  was  a  laddie,  lang  syne,  at  the  schule, 
The  maister  aye  ca'd  me  a  dunce  and  a  fule  ; 
For  of  a'  thxit  he  said,  I  could  ne'er  understan', 
Unless  when  he  bawled,  "  Jamie,  baud  oot  your  han'! " 
Then  I  gloomed,  an'  said,  "  Imph-m," 
I  glunched,  an'  said,  "  Imph-m," 
I  wasna  owre  proud,  but  owre  dour  to  say  A-y-e  ! 

Ae  day  a  queer  word  as  lang-nebbit's  himsel', 
He  vowed  he  would  thrash  me  if  I  wadna  spell. 


236  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

Quo'  I,  "  Maister  Quill,"  \vi'  a  kin'  o'  a  swither, 
"  I'll  spell  ye  the  word  gif  ye'll  spell  me  anither — 

Let's  hear  ye  spell  'Imph-in,' 

That  common  word  '  Imph-m,' 
That  auld   Scotch  word  'Jmph-ni,'  ve  ken  it  means 
A-y-e!" 

Had  ye  seen  hoo  he  glowered,  hoo  he  scratched  his  big 

pate, 
An'  shouted,  "  Ye  vilhiin,  get  oot  o'  my  gate  ! 
Get  aff  tae  yer  seat  I  ye're  the  plague  o'  the  schule  I 
The  de'il  o'  me  kens  if  yer  maist  rogue  or  f  ule  !  " 

But  I  only  said,  ''  Imph-m," 

That  decent  word  ^'Imph-m," 
That  auld-farran  "  Imph-m,"  that  stan's  for  an  A-y-e  ! 

An'  when,  a  brisk  wooer,  I  courted  my  Jean, 
O'  Avon's  braw  lassies  the  pride  an'  the  queen, 
When  'neath  my  grey  plaidie,  wi'  heart  beatin'  fain, 
I  spiered  in  a  whisper  if  she'd  "  be  my  ain," 
She  blushed  and  said,  "  Imph-m," 
That  charming  word  "  Imph-m," 
A  thousan'  times  better  an'  sweeter  than  Aye  I 

An'  noo  I'm  a  dad,  wi'  a  hoose  o'  my  ain — 
A  daintie  bit  wifie,  an'  mair  than  ae  wean ; 
But  the  warst  o't  is  this — when  a  question  I  spier, 
They  pit  on  a  luik  sae  auld-farran  an'  queer, 
But  only  say,  "Imph-m" — 
That  daft-like  word,  "  Imph-m," 
That  vulgar  word  "  Imph-m" — they  winna  say  A-y-e ! 

Sae  I've  gi'en  owre  the  "  Imph-m" — it's  nae  a  nice 

word  ; 
Wlien  printed  on  paper,  it's  perfect  absurd ; 
An'  gif  ye're  owre  lazy  to  open  yer  jaw, 
Jist  baud  yer  tongue,  an'  say  naething  ala'; 

But  never  say,  "  Imph-m,"  « 

That  wretched  word  "  Imph-m,' 
It's  ten  times  mair  vulgar  than  even  braid  Aye. 

James  Nicholson. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS,  23T 

A   SECRET. 

"I'll  tell  you  something,"  says  little  Belle, 
"If  you're  certain,  sure,  you'll  never  tell. 

"  Well,  then/'    whispers  the  little  maid, 
"  My  papa,  a  great,  big  man,  's  afraid." 

"  Oh,  isn't  that  funny  enough?  "  laughed  Sue. 
"Your  papa's  afraid,  and  mine  is,  too. 

"  Not  of  bears  or  tigers  or  bumble-bees  ; 

It's  something  a  thousand  times  worse  than  these^ 

''It's  a  terrible  thing,  tliat  goes  up  and  down 
Through  every  city,  village  and  town. 

"  And  my  papa  says  he  ahnost  knows 

That  things  will  be  ruined  wdierever  it  goes." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it  dreadful?"  says  Belle,  with  a  sigh* 
"It  wnll  swear  and,  papa  says,  steal  and  lie. 

"  I  s'pect  it  lias  horns  and  cloven  feet ; 
And,  Sue!  what  do  you  s'pose  it  will  eat?" 

Then  closer  together  drew  each  little  maid, 
Looking  about  as  if  half  afraid 

They  might  see  this  thing  with  cloven  feet. 
And  find  it  liked  little  girls  to  eat. 

And  then  they  fancied  they  heard  it  roar, 
As  it  gobbled  them  up  and  cried  for  more. 

"Oh,  its  name,"  cries  Belle,  "is  so  dreadful,  too; 
Does  your  papa  call  it '  Republican,'  Sue  ?" 

Sue  shakes  lier  head.     "Oh,  it  can't  be  that, 
For  my  papa  calls  it  a  'Democrat.'  " 

Lizzie  31.  Hadley, 


238  HE  A  nixGS,  recvfa  tions, 

THE  STARS  AND  STRIPES. 

Fellow  Citizens  : — It  is  witli  no  oidiniiry  pride 
tliat  1,  who  have  opposed  all  these  sectional  parties, 
can  stand  here  in  the  city  of  Atlantn,  in  ihe  very 
center  of  all  our  sorrows,  and  raise  my  voice — fear- 
ing no  successful  contradiction  when  1  affirm  that  the 
Union  never  made  war  upon  the  South. 

It  was  not  the  Union,  my  countrymen,  that  slew 
your  children  ;  it  was  not  the  Union  that  burned  your 
cities  ;  it  was  not  the  Union  that  laid  waste  your 
country,  invaded  your  homes,  and  mocked  at  your 
calamities  ;  it  was  not  the  Union  that  reconstructed 
your  states  ;  it  was  not  the  Union  that  disfranchised 
intelligent  citizens  and  denied  them  participation  in 
their  own  governments.  No  !  No!  Charge  not  these 
wrongs  upon  the  Union  of  your  fathers.  Every  one 
of  these  wrongs  was  inflicted  by  a  diabolical  section- 
alism in  the  very  teeth  of  every  principle  of  the 
American  Union. 

So,  equally,  I  say  the  South  never  made  war  upon 
the  Union,  There  has  never  been  an  hour  when  nine 
out  of  ten  of  us  would  not  have  given  our  lives  for 
this  Union.  We  did  not  leave  the  Union  because 
we  were  dissatisfied  with  it;  we  did  not  leave  the 
Union  to  make  war  on  it.  We  left  the  Union  because 
a  sectional  party  had  seized  it,  and  we  hoped  thereby 
to  avoid  a  conflict.  But  if  war  must  come,  we  intended 
to  fight  a  sectional  party  and  not  the  Union.  There- 
fore the  late  war,  with  all  its  disastrous  consequences, 
is  the  direct  result  of  sectionalism  in  the  North,  and 
of  sectionalism  in  the  South.  And  none,  I  repeat, 
of  these  disasters  are  chargeable  on  the  Union. 

When  unimpassioned  reason  shall  review  our  past, 
there  is  no  subject  in  all  our  liistory,  on  which  our 
American  Statesmanship,  North  and  South,  will  be 
adjudged  to  have  been  so  unwise,  so  imbecile,  and 
so  utterly  deficient,  as  on  tliat  one  subject  which 
stimulated  tliese  sectional  parties  into  existence. 


AND  IMPERSOXATIONS.  239 

Above  all  tlie  din  of  these  sectional  quarrelings,  I 
would  raise  my  voice,  and  proclaim  to  all  our  people 
that  there  is  no  right  or  liberty  for  any  race  of  any 
color  in  America,  save  in  the  preservation  of  that 
great  American  Union  according  to  the  principles 
symboled  by  tliat  flag.  Destroy  the  General  Govern- 
ment and  the  States  will  rush  into  anarchy.  Destroy 
tlie  States  and  we  will  all  rush  into  despotism  and 
slavery.  Preserve  tlie  General  Government,  preserve 
the  States,  and  we  shall  preserve  the  lights  and  liber- 
ties of  all  sections,  of  all  races,  for  all  time. 

My  countrymen,  have  you  studied  this  wonderful 
system  of  free  government  ?  To  him  wlio  loves 
liberty  it  is  more  enchanting  than  romance,  more 
bewitching  than  love,  more  elevating  than  any  other 
science.  Our  forefathers  adopted  this  plan,  with  im- 
provements in  the  details  which  cannot  be  found  in 
any  other  system.  The  snows  which  fall  on  Mount 
Washington  are  not  purer  than  tlie  motives  which 
begot  it.  Have  the  motives  which  so  inspired  our 
fathers  become  all  corrupt  in  their  children  ?  Are  the 
hopes  tliat  sustained  tlieni  ail  poisoned  in  us?  No! 
forever  No  !  Patriots  North,  Patriots  South  !  Let  us 
hallow  this  year  of  Jubilee  by  burying  all  our  sec- 
tional animosities.  Let  us  close  our  ears  to  the  men 
and  parties  that  would  teach  us  to  liate  each  other. 
Raise  high  the  flag  of  our  fatliers  I  Let  Southern 
breezes  kiss  it ;  let  Southern  skies  reflect  it !  South- 
ern patriots  will  love  it;  Southern  sons  will  defend 
it;  Southern  heroes  die  for  it ! 

Flag  of  our  Union,  wave  on,  wave  forever!  But 
wave  over  freemen,  not  over  subjects ;  wave  over 
states,  not  over  provinces  !  Wave  over  a  Union  of 
equals,  not  over  a  despotism  of  lords  and  vassals  ; 
over  a  land  of  law,  of  liberty,  of  peace,  and  not  of 
anarchy,  of  oppression,  and  strife. — B,  H,  MilL 


240  READINGS,  liEClTATIONS, 

THE   LITTLE   GNOxME. 

Once  there  lived  a  little  gnome, 

Who  had  made  his  little  home 
Right  down  in  the  middle  of  the  earth,  earth,  earth. 

He  was  full  of  fun  and  frolic, 

But  his  wife  was  melancholic, 
And  he  never  could  divert  her  into  mirth,  mirth, 
mirth. 

He  had  tried  her  with  a  monkey, 

And  a  parrot,  and  a  donkey, 
And  a  pig  that  squealed  whene'er  he  pulled  its  tail, 
tail,  tail ; 

But  thouG^h  he  lauQ^hed  himself 

Into  fits,  the  jolly  elf, 
Still  his  wifey's  melancholy  did  not  fail,  fail,  fail. 

"I  will  hie  me,"  said  the  gnome, 

"  From  my  wortiiy  earthy  home, 
I  will  go  among  the  dwellings  of  the  men,  men,  men. 

Something  funny  there  muni  be 

That  will  make  her  say  '  He  !  he ! ' 
I  will  find  it  and  will  bring  it  her  again,  'gain,  'gain." 

So  he  traveled  here  and  there 
And  he  saw  the  Blinking  Bear, 
And  the  Pattypol,  whose  eyes  are  in  his  tail,  tail, 
tail ; 
And  he  saw  the  Linking  Gloon, 
Who  was  playing  the  bassoon. 
And  the  Octopus  a-waltzing  with  the  whale,  whale, 
whale. 

He  saw  the  Chingo  Chee, 

And  a  lovely  sight  was  he. 
With  a  ringlet  and  a  ribbon  on  his  nose,  nose,  nose, 

And  the  Baggie,  and  the  Wogg, 

And  the  Cantilunar  Dog, 
Who  was  throwing  cotton  flannel  at  his  foe^-  "^^es, 
foes. 


AND  IMPEliSONATIONS.  241 

All  these  the  little  gnome 

Transported  to  his  home, 
And  set  them  do^vn  before  his  weeping  wife,  wife, 
wife, 

But  she  only  cried  and  cried, 

And  she  sobby-wobbed  and  sighed, 
Till  she  really  was  in  danger  of  her  life,  life,  life. 

Then  the  gnome  was  in  despair, 
And  he  tore  his  purple  hair, 
And  he  sat  him  down  in  sorrow  on  a  stone,  stone, 
stone. 
"  I  too,"  he  said,  "  will  cry 
Till  I  tumble  down  and  die. 
For  I've  had  enough   of  laughing  all  alone,  'lone, 
'lone." 

His  tears  they  flowed  away 
Like  a  rivulet  at  play. 
With   a   bubble,    gubble,  rubble,    o'er    the   ground, 
ground,  ground. 
But  when  this  his  wifey  saw. 
She  loudly  cried,  ''  Haw  I  haw  ! 
Here  at  last  is  something  funny  you  have  found, 
found,  found." 

She  laughed.   "  Ho  !  ho !  he  !  he  !  '^ 
And  she  chuckled  loud  with  glee. 
And  she  wiped  away  her  little  husband's  tears,  tears, 
tears  ; 
And  since  then,  through  wind  and  weather, 
They  have  said,  "  He  !  he  !  "  together. 
For  several  hundred  thousand  merry  years,  years, 
years. 

Laura  Richards^  in  "  St.  Nicholas^ 


242  READINGS,  BECITATIONS, 

ROB,  THE   PAUPER. 

{From  "  Farm  Legends^    Copyright  1875  by  Harper  &  Bros.) 

Rob,  the  Pauper,  is  loose  again 

Through  fields  and  woods  he  races ; 

He  shuns  the  women,  he  beats  the  men, 

He  kisses  the  children's  friglitened  faces. 

Tliere  is  no  house  by  road  or  lane 

He  did  not  tap  at  tlie  window  pane. 

And  make  more  dark  the  dismal  night, 

And  set  the  faces  within  all  wliite.  "^ 

Rob,  tlie  Pauper,  is  wild  of  eye, 

Wild  of  speech  and  wild  of  thinking, 

Yet  there  is  something  in  his  bearing 

Not  quite  what  a  pauper  should  be  wearing. 

In  every  step  is  a  shadow  of  grace, 

The  ghost  of  beauty  haunts  his  face. 

Rob,  the  Pauper,  is  crazed  of  brain. 

The  world  is  a  lie  to  liis  shattered  seeming  ; 

He  hath  broke  him  loose  from  liis  poorhouse  cell. 

He  hath  dragged  him  clear  from  rope  and  fetter. 

They  miglit  iiave  thought,    for  they  knew  full  well, 

They  could  keep  a  half-caged  panther  better. 

He  liath  crossed  the  fields,  the  woods,  the  street, 

He  hides  in  the  swamp  his  wasted  features. 

He  liatli  fallen  into  a  slough  of  sleep, 

A  haze  of  the  past  bends  softly  o'er  him. 

His  restless  spirit  a  watch  doth  keep 

As  memory's  canvas  glides  before  him. 

The  bright  past  dawns  through  a  cloud  of  dreams, 

And  once  again  in  his  prime  he  seems, 

For  over  his  lieart  sweepeth  a  vision 

Like  to  this. 

A  cozy  kitchen,  a  smooth  cut  lawn, 

Himself  on  the  door-stone  idly  sitting, 

A  blonde-haired  woman  about  liim  flitting. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  243 

She  fondl}"  stands  beside  him  there, 

And  deftly  toys  with  his  coal-bhiek  hair, 

And  whispers  to  him,  pleading-wise  : 

"O  Rob,  why  will  you  plague  my  heart,  why  will 

You  try  me  so?     Is  she  so  fair,  is  she  so  sweet 

That  you  must  needs  desert  me  ? 


"  I  saw  you  kiss  her  twice  and  thrice 

Behind  tlie  maple  ro\v,  and  each  caress 

You  gave  to  lier  did  like  a  dagger  stab  me. 

Oh,  why  for  her  and  for  her  smiles 

Your  heart  a  moment  liunger? 

What  though  her  shape  more  trim  than  mine, 

Her  face  a  trifle  younger? 

She  cannot  look  so  young  to  you  as  I  when  we  were 

wed  ; 
She  cannot  speak  more  sweet  to  you 
Than  words  that  I  liave  said ; 
She  cannot  love  you  half  so  well  as  I,  when  all  i» 

done, 
And  she  is  not  your  wedded  wife — the  mother  of 

your  son. 


"  You  say  that  I  am  overwise, 

That  I  am  jealous  of  you. 

My  jealous  tongue  but  tells  the  more 

The  zest  Avith  which  I  love  you. 

Oh,  we  miglit  be  so  peacefid  here 

With  nothing  of  reproving  ; 

Oh,  we  might  be  so  happy  here, 

With  none  to  spoil  our  loving. 

Why  should  a  joy  be  more  a  joy 

Because,  forsooth,  'tis  liid  ? 

Why  should  a  kiss  be  more  a  kiss 

Because  it  is  forbid  ? 

"  Remember  tliere  are  years  to  come, 

And  there  are  thorns  of  woe  that  you  may  grasp 

If  once  you  let  the  flowers  of  true  love  sfo." 


244  HEADINGS,  BECITATIONS, 

Kob,  the  Paupei-,  awakes  and  runs ; 
A  clamor  cometh  clear  and  clearer, 
They  are  hunting  him  with  dogs  and  guns, 
They  are  every  moment  pressing  nearer. 
Through  pits  of  stagnant  pools  he  pushes, 
Through  the  thick  sumach's  poison  bushes, 
He  runs  and  stumbles  and  leaps  and  clambers, 
From  bog  to  bog,  from  slough  to  slough. 


They  have  hunted  lum  to  the  open  field, 

He  is  falling  upon  their  worn-out  mercies. 

They  loudly  call  to  him  to  yield. 

He  hoarsely  pays  them  back  in  curses. 

He  waves  his  cudgel  with  war-cry  loud. 

And  breaks  again  from  the  crowd  around  him. 

On — yet  on — with  speed  he  rushes, 

He  mounts  a  fence  with  a  madman's  ease 

And  this  is  something  of  what  he  sees : — 

A  lonely  cottage,  some  tangled  mullein, 

A  broken  chimney  cold  and  sullen. 

The  pauper  falls  on  the  dusty  floor, 

And  there  rings  in  his  failing  ears  once  more 

A  voice,  as  it  might  be,  from  the  dead. 


*'  O  Rob,  I  have  a  word  to  say,  a  cruel  word  to  you- 

I  cannot  longer  live  a  lie, 

I  cannot  keep  the  secret  locked 

That  long  has  been  your  due, 

Not  if  you  strike  me  to  the  ground 

And  spurn  me  in  my  falling. 

He  came  to  me  when  first  a  cloud 

Across  your  smile  wns  creej)ing. 

He  came  to  me,  he  brought  to  me 

A  slighted  lieart  for  keeping. 

He  would  not  see  my  angry  frown, 

He  sought  me  day  by  day  ; 

I  flung  at  him  hot  words  of  scorn, 

I  turned  my  face  away. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  245 

1  bade  hiin  dread  my  liusband^s  rage, 

Wlieii  once  his  words  were  known. 

He  smiled  at  me  and  said 

I  had  no  husband  of  my  own ! 

His  words  were  over-true  ; 

They  burned  into  my  brain. 

I  could  not  rub  them  out  again 

Were  I  awake  or  sleeping. 

I  threw  myself  upon  your  heart, 

I  plead  and  prayed  to  stay ! 

I  held  my  hands  to  you  for  belt). 

You  pushed  them  rude  away  ! 

He  came  to  me  again ! 

He  held  his  eager  love  to  me 

Whose  weak,  hungry  heart  deep  desolation  dreadecL 

He  bade  me  follow  him 

And  see  my  erring  fancy  righted. 

We  crept  along  the  garden  glade 

By  moonbeams  dimly  lighted. 

She  silent  sat'mid  clustering  vines, 

Tiiougli  much  her  eyes  did  speak, 

And  your  black  hair  was  tightly  pressed 

Unto  her  glowing  cheek. 

"  It  crazed  me,  but  he  soothed  me  sweet 

With  love's  unnumbered  charms; 

I,  desolate,  threw  myself  into  his  desolate  arms. 

Oh,  Rob,  you  know  how  little  worth, 

When  once  a  woman  slips. 

May  be  the  striking  down  a  liand 

To  keep  herself  from  falling. 

The  night  was  dark,  the  storm  had  come, 

The  fancy  stars  of  youth  each  hid  its  pale  white  face. 

Till  all  was  dark,  and  all  was  drear, 

And  all  was  black  disgrace. 

"  Oh,  Rob,  good-bye  !  "  a  solemn  one— 

*Tis  till  the  Judgment  day. 

We  miglit  Jiave  been  so  peaceful  here 


246  READINGS,  liECJTATIONS, 

Witli  nothing  of  reproving  ; 

We  miglit  have  been  so  happy  here 

With  none  to  spoil  our  loving. 

As  I,  a  guilty  one,  might  kiss  a  corpse's  waiting  brow, 

I  bend  to  you  where  you  have  fallen, 

And  calmly  kiss  3'ou  now. 

As  I,  a  wronged  and  injured  one, 

Miglit  seek  escape's  glad  door, 

I  wander  forth  into  the  world. 

To  enter  here  no  more." 

Rob,  the  Pauper,  is  lying  in  state 

In  a  box  of  r()ugh-[)laned  boards,  nnpainted — 

He  waits  at  the  [)<)orlionse  grave-yard  gate, 

For  a  home  by  human  lust  uniainted. 

They  have  gone  to  tiieir  homes  anear  and  far, 

Their  joys  and  griefs,  tlieir  loves  and  haling — 

Some  to  suiidei-  'lie  ties  that  are. 

And  some  to  cooing,  :ijul  wooing  and  mating, 

They  Avill  swittiy  sail  love's  delicate  bark 

With  never  a  helm  in  the  dangerous  dark  ; 

They  will  ne'er  quite  get  it  understood 

That  the  Pauper's  woes  were  for  their  good. 

Carleton. 


BUCKINGHAM  FOILED. 

In  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novel,  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak," 
the  second  Duke  of  Buckingham,  Minister  of  Charles 
I.,  young,  gay,  and  voluptuous,  became  enamored 
of  the  fair  Alice  Bridgeworth,  and  had  her  conducted 
under  guise  of  friendship  to  liis  palace,  and  detained 
there  against  lier  will.  Zarah,  the  dark-eyed,  high- 
spirited  Mauri  tan  ian  maiden,  succeeded  in  releasing 
her,  and  preserved  the  deception  by  remaining  in  the 
stead  of  Alice  to  meet  and  foil  the  advances  of  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham.  Zarah,  disguised  in  veil  and 
coquetish  oriental  costume,  rises  to  meet  the  Duke 
as  he  enters  her  apartment. 


ANT)  IMPERSONATIONS.  247 

Duke.  F;iir  mLstiess  Alice,  I  am  sensible  how 
deeply  I  ouglit  to  sue  for  pardon  for  the  mistaken 
zeal  of  my  servants,  wlio,  seeing  yon  deserted  and 
exposed  without  protection  duiingan  unlucky  affray, 
took  it  upon  tliem  to  bring  you  under  the  roof  of 
one  wlio  would  expose  his  life  rather  than  suffer  you 
to  sustain  a  moment's  anxiety.  Was  it  my  faidt  that 
those  around  me  should  have  judged  it  necessary  to 
interfere  for  your  preservation ;  or  that,  aware  of  the 
interest  I  must  take  in  you,  they  have  detained  you 
till  I  could  myself,  in  personal  attendance,  receive 
your  commands  ? 

Zarali.  That  attendance  lias  not  been  speedily 
rendered,  my  Lord. — I  liave  been  a  prisoner  for  two 
days  — neglected,  and  left  to  the  charge  of  menials. 

Duke.  How  say  you,  lady  ? — neglected !  By  heaven, 
if  the  best  in  my  household  has  failed  in  his  dutjs  I 
will  discard  him  on  the  instant ! 

Zarah.  I  complain  of  no  lack  of  courtesy  from 
your  servants,  my  lord  ;  but  methinks  it  had  been 
but  complaisant  in  the  Duke  himself  to  explain  to 
me  earlier  wherefore  he  has  had  tlie  boldness  to 
detain  me  as  a  state  prisonei'. 

Duke.  And  can  the  divine  Alice  doubt  that,  had 
time  and  space,  those  cruel  enendes  to  the  flight  of 
passion,  given  permission,  the  instant  in  which  you 
crossed  your  vassal's  threshold  had  seen  its  devoted 
master  at  your  feet,  who  liath  thouglit,  since  he  saw 
you,  of  nothing  but  the  charms  which  that  fatal 
morning  placed  before  him  at  Chiffinch's ? 

Zarah.  1  understand  then,  my  lord,  tliat  you  have 
been  absent,  and  have  liad  no  part  in  the  restraint 
which  has  been  exercised  upon  me? 

Duke,  Absent  on  the  King's  command,  lad}^  and 
employed  in  the  discharge  of  Ins  duty.  What  coidd 
I  do?--The  moment  you  left  ChifTinch's,  Ins  majesty 
commanded  me  to  the  saddle  in  such  haste  that  i  had 
no  time  to  change  my  satin  buskins  for  riding  boots. 
If  my  absence  has  occasioned  you  a  moment  of 
incoi.vcnience,  blame  the  inconsiderate  zeal  of  those 


248  BEADING S,  RECITATIONS, 

who,  seeing  me  depart  from  London,  half  distracted 
at  my  sei)aratio«i  from  you,  were  willing  to  contribute 
their  unmannercd,  though  well-meant  exertions,  to 
preserve  tlieir  master  from  despair,  by  retaining  the 
fair  Alice  witliin  liis  reacli.  To  whom,  indeed,  could 
they  liavo  restored  you  ?  He  whom  you  selected  as 
your  champion  is  in  prison,  or  fled, — your  father 
absent  from  town, — youv  uncle  in  the  North.  To 
ChilBnch's  house  you  had  expressed  your  well- 
founded  aversion ;  and  what  fitter  asylum  remained 
than  that  of  your  devoted  slave,  where  you  must 
ever  reign  a  queen  ? 

Zarah.  An  i»nprisoned  one?  I  desire  not  such 
royalty. 

JDuke.  Alas !  how  wilfully  (Jcneeling)  you  rniscon- 
stiue  me  !  and  what  right  can  you  have  to  complain 
of  a  few  hours*  gentle  restiaint, — you,  who  destine  so 
many  to  hopeless  captivity!  Be  merciful  for  once, 
and  withdraw  that  envious  veil  ;  for  the  divinities 
ai-e  ever  most  cruel  when  they  deliver  their  oracles 
from  such  clouded  recesses.  Suffer  at  least  my  rash 
hand  —  - 

Zarah.  I  will  save  your  Grace  that  unworthy 
trouble.  (^Thro'ivs  back  her  veil.)  Look  on  me,  my 
I^ord  Duke,  and  see  if  these  be  indeed  the  cliarms 
Ihai  h.ive  made  on  your  Grace  an  impression  so 
powerful.  {The  Duke  rises  in  amazement^ and  stands 
as  one  petrified.)  My  Lord  Duke,  it  seems  the  lift- 
ing of  my  veil  has  done  the  work  of  magic  upon 
your  Gnice.  Alas,  for  the  captive  princess  whose 
nod  was  to  command  a  vassal  so  costly  !  She  runs, 
methiiiks,  no  slight  chance  of  being  turned  out  of 
doors,  like  a  second  Cinderella,  to  seek  her  fortune 
among  lackeys  and  lightermen. 

Duke.  I  am  astonished !  That  villain,  Jerning- 
ham  —  I  will  liave  the  scoundrel's  blood  ! 

Zarah.  Na}',  never  abuse  Jerningham  for  the 
matter;  but  lamentyour  own  unhappy  engagements. 
While  you,  my  Lord  Duke,  were  posting  northward 
in  white  satin  buskins,  to  toil  in  the  king's  affairs. 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  249 

the  right  and  hiwful  princess  sat  weeping  in  sables 
in  the  nncheered  solitude  to  which  your  absence  con- 
demned liei'.  Two  days  she  was  disconsolate  in  vain  ; 
on  the  third  came  an  African  enchantress  to  change 
tlie  scene  for  her,  and  the  person  for  your  Grace. 
Metl links,  my  Lord,  this  adventure  will  tell  but  ill, 
when  some  faithful  squire  shall  recount  or  record  the 
gallant  adventures  of  the  second  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham. 

I) like.  Fairly  bit,  and  bantered  to  boot !  The 
monkey  has  a  turn  for  satire,  too,  by  all  that  is 
piquant.  Hark  ye,  fair  Princess,  how  dared  you  ad- 
venture on  sucli  a  trick  as  you  have  been  accomplice 
to? 

Zarah.  Dare,  my  Lord !  put  the  question  to 
others,  not  to  one  who  fears  nothing. 

Duke.  By  my  faith,  I  believe  so ;  for  thy  front  is 
bronzed  by  nature.  What  is  your  name  and  condi- 
tion ? 

Zarah.  My  condition  I  have  told  you :  I  am  a 
Mauritanian  sorceress  by  profession,  and  my  name  is 
Zarah. 

Duke.  But  methinks  that  face,  shape,  and  eyes — 
when  didst  thou  pass  for  a  dancing  fairy? — some 
such  imp  thou  wert  not  many  days  since. 

Zarah.  My  sister  you  may  have  seen — my  twin  sis- 
ter ;  but  not  me,  my  Lord. 

Duke.  Indeed,  that  duplicate  of  thine,  if  it  was 
not  tliy  very  self,  was  possessed  witli  a  dumb  spirit, 
as  thou  with  a  talking  one.  I  am  still  in  the  mind 
tliat  you  are  tlie  same ;  and  that  Satan,  always  so 
powerful  with  your  sex,  had  art  enough,  on  our  for- 
mer meeting,  to  make  thee  hold  thy  tongue. 

Zarah.  Believe  what  you  will  of  it,  my  Lord,  it 
cannot  cliange  the  truth.  And  now,  my  Lord,  I  bid 
you  farewell.  Have  you  any  commands  to  Mauri- 
tania? 

Duke.  Tarry  a  little,  my  Princess  ;  and  remem- 
ber that  you  have  voluntarily  entered  yourself  as 
pledge  for  another;  and  are  justly  subjected  to  any 


250  HEADINGS,  HECfTA  TJOys, 

penalty   which    it   is  my  pleasure  to   exact.     None 
must  brave  Buckiughaui  with  impunity. 

Zarah.  I  am  in  no  luirry  to  depart  if  your  Giace 
has  any  commands  for  me. 

Duke.  What!  Are  you  neither  afraid  of  my  re- 
sentment nor  of  my  love,  fair  Zarali? 

Zarah.  Of  neither,  by  this  glove.  Your  resent- 
ment must  be  a  pretty  passion  indeed,  if  it  could 
stoop  to  such  a  lielpless  object  as  I  am  ;  and  for  your 
love — Good  lack  !  Good  lack  ! 

Bake.  And  wliy  good  lack,  with  such  a  tone  of 
contempt,  good  lady?  Think  you  Buckingham  can- 
not love  or  has  never  been  beloved  in  return  ? 

Zarah.  He  may  have  thought  himself  beloved; 
but  by  what  sliglit  creatures  ! — things  whose  heads 
could  be  rendered  giddy  by  a  playhouse  rant — whose 
brains  were  only  filled  with  red-heeled  shoes  and 
satin  buskins — and  who  run  altogether  mad  on  the 
aro'ument  of  a  Georfje  and  a  star. 

Duke.  And  are  there  no  such  frail  fair  ones  in 
yowv  climate,  most  scornful  Princess? 

Zarah.  There  are ;  but  men  rate  them  as  parrots 
iind  monkeys — things  without  either  sense  or  soul, 
head  or  heart.  The  nearness  we  bear  to  the  sun  has 
purified,  while  it  strengthens,  our  passions.  The 
-icicles  of  your  frozen  climate  shall  as  soon  hammer 
hot  bars  into  ])lowshares  as  shall  the  fopper}^  and 
ioily  of  your  pretended  gallantry  make  an  instant's 
impression  on  a  breast  like  mine. 

Bake.  You  speak  like  one  who  knows  what 
passion  is.  Sit  down,  fair  lady,  and  grieve  not  that 
I  detain  you.  You  have  known,  then,  wliat  it  is  to 
love  ? 

Zarah.  I  know — no  matter  if  by  experience  or 
through  the  report  of  others — that  to  love  as  I  would 
love,  would  be  to  yield  not  an  iota  to  avarice,  not 
one  inch  to  vanit}',  not  to  sacrifice  the  slightest  feel- 
ing to  interest  or  ambition  ;  but  to  give  up  all  to 
fidelity  of  heart  and  reciprocal  affection. 

Duke.  And  how  many  women,  think  you,  are 
cai)able  of  feeling  such  disinterested  passion? 


AND  IMPEIiSOKATIONS.  251 

Zarah.  More,  by  thousands,  tiiiui  men  wli.)  merit 
it.  Alas  !  How  often  do  you  see  a  woman  ])ale, 
wretched,  and  degraded,  still  followinj:^  with  patient 
constancy  the  footsteps  of  some  predominating^ 
tyrant,  and  submitting  to  all  liis  injustice  with  the 
endurance  of  a  faithful  and  misused  spaniel,  which 
prizes  a  look  from  his  master,  though  tlie  surliest 
groom  that  ever  disgraced  humanity,  more  than  all 
the  pleasures  which  the  w^orld  besides  can  furnish 
him  ?  Think  what  such  would  be  to  one  who  merited 
and  repaid  her  devotion. 

Duke,  Perhaps  the  very  reverse,  and  for  your  simile, 
I  can  see  little  resemblance.  I  cannot  charge  my 
spaniel  with  any  perfidity  ;  but  for  my  mistresses — 
to  confess  truth,  I  must  always  be  in  a  cursed  hurry 
if  I  would  have  the  credit  of  changing  them  before 
they  leave  me. 

Zarah.  And  they  serve  you  but  rightly,  my  Lord  ; 
for  what  are  you  ? — Nay,  frown  not ;  for  you  must 
hear  the  truth  for  once.  Nature  has  done  its  part, 
and  made  a  fair  outside,  and  courtly  education  liath 
added  its  share.  You  are  noble,  it  is  tlie  accident  of 
birth — handsome,  it  is  the  caprice  of  nature — gener- 
ous, because  to  give  is  more  easy  than  to  refuse — well- 
appareled,  it  is  to  the  credit  of  your  tailor — well- 
natured  in  the  main,  because  you  have  youth  and 
liealth — brave,  because  to  be  otherwise  were  to  be 
degraded — and  witty,  because  you  cannot  help  it. 

Duke.  (^Crlanchif/  in  mirro7\)  Noble  and  hand- 
some and  courtlike,  generous,  well-attired,  good- 
humored,  brave,  and  witty  ! — You  allow  me  more, 
madam,  than  I  have  the  slightest  pretension  to,  and 
surely  enough  to  make  my  way,  at  some  point  at 
least,  to  female  favor. 

Zarah.  I  have  neither  allowed  you  a  heart  nor  a 
iiead.  Nay,  do  not  redden  as  if  you  would  fly  at  me. 
I  say  not  but  nature  may  have  given  you  both ;  but 
folly  has  confounded  the  one,  and  selfishness  per- 
verted the  other.  The  man  whom  I  call  deserving 
the  name  is  one  whose   thoughts  and  exertions  are 


25i  READINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

for  otlieis,  rather  tliaii  for  himself, — whose  high  pur- 
pose is  adopted  on  just  principles,  and  never  aban- 
doned while  heaven  or  earth  affords  means  of  ac- 
complishing it.  He  is  one  who  will  neither  seek  an 
indirect  advantage  by  a  specious  road,  nor  take  an 
evil  path  to  gain  a  real  good  purpose.  Such  a  man 
were  one  for  whom  a  woman's  heart  should  beat  con- 
stant while  he  breathes,  and  break  when  he  dies. 

DuJce.  You  speak  as  if  you  had  yourself  a  heart 
which  could  pay  the  full  tribute  to  the  merit  which 
you  describe  so  warmly. 

Zarah,  And  have  I  not  ?  (^Laying  her  hand  on  her 
bosom.}  Here  beats  one  that  would  bear  me  out  in 
what  I  have  said,  whether  in  life  or  death. 

Duke.  (^Interested.)  Were  it  in  my  power  to  de- 
serve such  faithful  attachment,  methinks  it  should  be 
my  care  to  requite  it. 

Zarah.  Your  wealth,  your  titles,  your  reputation 
as  a  gallant — all  you  possess,  were  too  little  to  merit 
such  sincere  affection. 

Duke.  Come,  fair  lady,  do  not  be  so  disdainful. 
Bethink  you,  that  if  your  love  be  as  pure  as  coined 
gold,  still  a  poor  fellow  like  myself  may  offer  you  an 
equivalent  in  silver.  The  quantity  of  my  affection 
must  make  up  for  the  quality. 

Zarah.  But  I  am  not  carrying  my  affection  to 
market,  my  Lord,  and  therefore  I  need  jione  of  the 
base  coin  you  offer  in  exchange  for  it. 

Duke.  How  do  I  know  that,  my  fairest  ?  This  is 
the  realm  of  Paphos — you  have  invaded  it,  with  what 
l)urpose  you  best  know  ;  but  I  think  Avith  none  con- 
sisteut  with  your  present  assumption  of  cruelty. 
Come,  come,  eyes  that  are  so  intelligent  can  laugh 
with  delight,  as  well  as  gleam  with  scorn  and  anger. 
You  are  iiere  a  waif  on  Cupid's  Manor,  and  I  must 
seize  on  you  in  the  name  of  tlic  deity. 

Zarah.  Do  not  think  of  touching  me,  my  Lord. 
Ai)proach  me  not,  if  you  would  hope  to  learn  the 
purpose  of  my  being  here.  Your  Grace  may  suppose 
yourself  a  Solomon,  if  you  please;  but  I  am  no  trav- 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  253 

elling  princess,  come  from  distant  climes^  either  to 
flatter  your  pride  or  wonder  at  your  glory. 

Duke,  A  defiance  !  by  Jupiter ! 

Zarah,  You  mistake  the  signal.  I  came  not  here 
without  taking  sufficient  precautions  for  my  retreat. 

Duke,  You  mouth  it  bravely  ;  but  never  fortress 
so  boasted  its  resources  but  the  garrison  had  some 
thoughts  of  surrender.  Come,  my  fair  Sorceress. 
(^Moves  towards  her  ;  she,  with  a  rippling  laugh  of  defi^ 
ance^  darts  through  an  open  window,  and  disappears 
behind  a  neighboring  thicket  of  shrubs.') 

Duke.  By  all  the  powers  of  Hades,  I  will  yet  have 
vengeance  on  that  impudent  little  jilt.  (^Uxit  in  great 
passion.') — Sir  Walter  Scott, 


A  DREAM  OF  FAIR  WOMEN. 

{Recitation,  with  Pantomime  and  Musical  Accompaniment) 

Methouglit  that  I  had  wandered  far 

In  an  old  wood  ;  fresh-washed  in  coolest  dew  ; 

The  maiden  splendors  of  the  morning  star 

Shook  in  the  steadfast  blue. 

There  was  no  motion  in  tlie  dumb,  dead  air. 

Not  any  song  of  bird  or  sound  of  rill ; 

Gross  darkness  of  the  inner  sepulchre 

(^Enter  Helen  of  Troy  in  Grecian  costume. 
Air — "•  Acinic  LaurieT) 

Is  not  so  deadly  still 

As  that  wide  forest. 

At  length  I  saw  a  lady  within  call. 

Stiller  than  chisell'd  marble,  standing  there  ; 

A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall. 

And  most  divinely  fair. 

Her  loveliness  with  shame  and  with  surprise 

Froze  my  swift  speech :  she,  turning  on  my  face 

The  star-like  sorrows  of  immortal  eyes, 


254  BEADING S,  BECITATIONS, 

Spoke  slowly  in  her  place. 

"  I  had  great  beauty :  ask  thou  not  my  name  ; 

No  one  can  be  more  wise  than  destiny. 

Many  drew  swords  and  died.    Where'er  I  came  I 

brought  calamity." 
*'  No  marvel,  sovereign  lady ;  in  fair  field 
Myself  for  such  a  face  had  boldy  died." 

(^Enter  Iphigenia  in  Grrecian  costume. 
Air — '*  PleyeVs  Hymn,^') 

I  answered  free,  and  turning  L appealed 

To  one  that  stood  beside. 

But  she,  with  sick  and  scornful  looks  averse, 

To  her  full  height  her  stately  stature  draws  : 

*'My  youtli,"  she  said,  "was  blasted  with  a  curse; 

This  woman  was  the  cause. 

I  was  cut  off  from  hope  in  that  sad  place, 

Which  yet  to  name  my  spirit  loathes  and  fears: 

My  father  held  his  hand  upon  his  face  ; 

I,  blinded  with  my  tears, 

Still  strove  to  speak :  my  voice  was  thick  with  sighs 

As  in  a  dream.     Dimly  \  could  descry 

The  stern,  black-bearded  kings  with  wolfisli  eyes, 

Waiting  to  see  me  die. 

The  high  masts  flickered  as  tliey  lay  afloat ; 

The  crowds,  the  temples,  wavered,  and  the  shore; 

The  bright  death  quivered  at  the  victim's  tln-oat, 

Touched,  and  I  knew  no  more." 

Whereto  the  other  with  a  downward  brow; 

''I  wouhl  the  white,  cold,  heavy-plunging  foam. 

Whirled  by  the  wind,  liad  rolled  me  deep  below. 

Then  when  I  left  my  home." 

{Exit  Iphigenia  and  Helen  oy  Troy. 

{Enter  Cleopatra  in  Oriental  coatume), 
Alr-^''  My  Country  'Tin  of  Thee, 

Sudden  I  lieard  a  voice  that  cried,  "Come  here, 
That  I  mav  look  on  thee." 


AND  IMPERSONATIONS.  256 

Turning,  I  saw  a  stately  form  in  costly  robes  and 

coronet, 
A  queen  with  swarthy  cheeks  and  bold,  black  eyes. 
She,  flashing  fortli  a  haughty  smile,  began  : 
''  I  governed  men  by  change,  and  so  I  swayed 
All  moods.     'Tis  long  since  I  have  seen  a  man. 
Once,  like  the  moon,  I  made 
The  ever-shifting  currents  of  the  blood 
According  to  my  humor  ebb  and  flow. 
I  have  no  men  to  govern  in  this  wood : 
That  makes  my  only  woe. 
Nay — yet  it  chafes  me  that  I  could  not  bend 
One  will ;  nor  tame  and  tutor  with  mine  eye 
That  dull,  cold-blooded  Ctesar.    Prythee,  friend, 
Where  is  Mark  Antony  ? 

0  my  life  in  Egypt !  O  tlie  dalliance  and  the  wit, 
The  flattery  and  the  strife, 

And  the  wild  kiss,  when  fresh  from  war's  alarms 
My  Hercules,  my  Roman  Antony, 
My  mailed  Bacchus  leapt  into  my  arms, 
Contented  tliere  to  die ! 

1  died  a  queen.     The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 
A  name  forever! — lying  robed  and  crowned 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse."  [UxU  Cleopatra. 
Slowly  my  sense  undazzled.     Then  I  heard 

A  noise  of  some  one  coming  thro'  the  lawn, 

And  singing  clearer  than  the  crested  bird, 

That  claps  his  wings  at  dawn. 

As  one  who  hearing  an  anthem  sung,  is  charmed  and 

tied 
To  where  he  stands — so  stood  I,  when  that  flow 

^Enter  Jephthah's  daughter  veiled  in  Jewish  costume. 
Air — ''''Back  to  My  Mountain  Horned) 

jjf  music  left  the  lips  of  her  that  died 

To  save  her  father's  vow ; 

The  daughter  of  the  warrior  Gileadite, 

A  maiden  pure ;  as  when  she  went  along 

From  Mizpeh^s  tower'd  gate  with  welcome  light, 


25Q  BE  A  DINGS,  RECITATIONS, 

With  timbrel  and  with  song, 

My  words  leapt  forth.     "  Heaven  heads  tlie  count  of 

crimes 
With  that  wild  oath."     She  rendered  answer  high. 
"  Not  so,  nor  once  alone :  a  thousand  times 
I  would  be  born  and  die. 

Single  I  grew,  like  some  green  plant,  wliose  root 
Creeps  to  the  garden  water  pipes  beneath. 
Feeding  the  flower ;  but  ere  my  flower  to  fruit 
Changed,  I  was  ripe  for  death. 
My  God,  my  land,  my  father — these  did  move 
Me  from  the  bliss  of  life,  that  nature  gave, 
Lower'd  softly  with  a  threefold  cord  of  love 
Down  to  a  silent  grave. 
How  beautiful  a  thing  it  was  to  die 
For  God  and  for  my  sire ! 
It  comforts  me  in  this  one  thought  to  dwell, 
That  I  subdued  me  to  my  father's  will ; 
Because  the  kiss  he  gave  me,  ere  I  fell, 
Sweetens  the  spirit  still." 

She  locked  her  lips  ;  she  left  me  where  I  stood ; 
"  Glory  to  God,"  she  sang  and  passed  afar. 

[Exit  Jephthah's  daughter. 
Losing  her  carol  I  stood  pensively. 
As  one  from  a  casement  leans  his  head, 
When  midnight  bells  cease  ringing  suddenly, 
And  the  old  year  is  dead. 

QEnter  Rosamond. 
Air — "  Last  Rose  of  Summer"^ 

"  Alas !  alas !  "  a  low  voice  full  of  care, 

Murmur'd  beside  me  :  "  Turn  and  look  on  me  : 

I  am  that  Rosamond,  whom  men  call  fair, 

If  what  I  was  I  be. 

Would  I  had  been  some  maiden  coarse  and  pooi  { 

O  me,  that  I  should  ever  see  the  light ! 

Those  dragon  eyes  of  anger'd  Eleanor 

Do  hunt  me,  day  and  night." 

IFxit  Rosamond. 


AND  niPEESONATIONS.  257 

Morn  broadened  on  the  borders  of  tlie  dark, 
Ere  I  saw  her,  who  clasp'd  in  her  last  trance 

(^Enter  Joan  of  Akc  in  Military  costume  of  Mack 
and  tinsel,  hea7'ing  a  ivhite  banner  on  which  ap- 
pears, in  golden  letters,  the  ivord  ''  France.'''' 
Air — ''  Marsellaise  Hpnn.^') 

Her  murdered  father's  liead,  or  Joan  of  Arc, 

A  light  of  ancient  France. 

"  Maid  of  Orleans  !  "  I  cried  ; 

"  Martyr  and  saviour  of  thy  ungrateful  race." 

Transfixed  I  gazed ! 

Whilst  round  her,  trooped 

The  other  images  of  my  dream  so  rare. 

(^Re-enter  Representative  Figures, 
Air — "  HoniJ  Siveet  Home^') 

Breathless  I  stood.     Did  ever  human  eye  such  beauty 

see  ! 
The  fair  group  lingered  a  moment  more — and  was 

gone — 
I  had  awakened  from  a  dream  of  fair  women. 
Adapted  from  Tennyson's  ^^  Dream  of  Fair  WomenJ^ 


1HE    EMOU 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

Adown  the  Field  Togetlier  .  58 

A  p<istrophe  to  Water 1 

Artist  and  Peiisant 198 

At  '•  The  Literary" 2vf4 

Aunty  Dolef  uls  Visit 125 

Autumn   215 

Baby's  Pillow,  The 113 

Battle,  The  179 

Blind  Girl  of  Castel-Cuille,  The....  150 

Boy  Brittan    f-'T 

Bride  of  the  Greek  Isle,  The 97 

Brutus  on  the  Death  of  Caesar —  214 

Bu«;kinghain  F'oiled ...24(5 

l.\ise  of  Mrs.  Moll,  The  67 

Chariot  Race.  The 77 

Cheap  Jack,  The  135 

Child  on  the  Judgment  Seat,  The.  188 

Ciiildren  and  tiie  Angel 143 

Child-wife,  The 2? 

Coino  3 

Conquered  Banner,  The 103 

Day  «)f  Peace,  The . .      52 

Democracy  Hateful  to  Philip 210 

Dreamland  Sea,  The 108 

I)ream  of  Fair  Women,  A 253 

E'Unbnrgh  after  Fiodden 63 

End  of  tlie  Play,  The 212 

Fai  I  of  Jerusalem,  The 90 

Famine,  Tlie 36 

Fate  of  Nina  and  Rienzi lt<6 

First  Soliloquy  of  a  Rationalistic 

Chicken 25 

Flight  of  the  Angel  Gabriel 44 

Fourth  of  July  at  Junesvillj,  The.     10 

Gat*'s l<x» 

Gettysburg     207 

Gin  Fiend,  The 23 

Glaucus  in  the  Roman  Arena 21S 

Gosj)el  Harpoon,  The 160 

Grandame's  Story 144 

Graveyard  of  the  Ages,  The 168 

Haml^-t        ...  175 

Harvp.sf,  TliH     93 

Hiawatha's  Wooing     32 

How  Ruby  Played 1.55 

I  Love,  You  Love KW 

Imph-m  2.35 

Inasmuch    162 

Kingamonar  Men.  A 165 

Legf'nl  of  Martha's  Vineyard,  A. .  127 

Le  Mariagede  Convetiance lOV) 

Look  Not  upon  the  Wine  When  It 

Is  Red 134 

Lost  in  the  Sea  Fog 75 

Macbeth  and  the  Dagger 1 74 

Madman's  Manuscript,  The 114 

Mansie  Wauch  and  the  Play ISl 

March  of  Time,  The 141 

Margery 9 


PAGE. 

Marse  Phil  1*'9 

May  Days 191 

Mormon  Wife  Number  One,  on  tiie 

Arrival  of  NuuiberTweiit y-oue  106 

>Ir.  Horner  of  Grumble  Corner 42 

Mrs.  Lt-o  Hunter 170 

My  Ship-  at  Sea  112 

Napole«>n 1.5H 

New  South,  The 6 

North  and  Sout  h 203 

Nothing  to  Wear 46 

Nydia  2-.i 

Pansy  Blossom.  The 204 

Pleasures  of  Hope ^4 

Present  Age.  The 41 

Province  of  History 131 

Puritans,  The 195 

Race  Pr.  blem.  The 102 

Robert  E.  Lee 195 

Robin 121 

Rob,  the  Pauper 212 

Samuel  S.  (  ox 206 

Sent  Back  by  the  Angels 226 

Shariny:  Thanksgiving  Dinner 12 

SU-ep   Walkiiig  Sctne   iiom   .^iac- 

beth        27 

Song  of  Steam,  The  {1.5 

Sta is  and  St rij )es.  The 23H 

Twickenham  Ferry 121 

Uncrowned  ainony:  the  Nati<»us     .  .56 

Victory  of  the  Frosts,  The    7"> 

Voiceof  the  Helpless.  The 22 

Woe  Joukydaidles lOS 

What  Const i'utes  a  Stare?         .   ..  216 

Whai  Makes  the  Grasves  Grow?. . .  H2 

Woman  an.l  the  Hose Til) 

Woild  foi  Sale,  The     60 

JUVI^NII.F,   SELECTIO.Kfl. 


Baby  

Baby  Bovs 

Baby's  Name.  The    

Before  an.l  .After  Seliool 
D"irs  Tea  Party.  The  .     . 

Elf-cliild.  Tiie 

Elsie's  Thanksgiving 
Jack  Frost's  Little  Sister. 
Kilter  of  Candv-Laiid 


.  . .  45 

..  217 

...  15 

..  UK 

72 

.  I<i5 

...  209 

...  i:^0 

Little  (^nome.  Tl^e . .  240 

Little  Housekeeper,  The 39 

Little  Jli^Jtake.  A        201 

Little  Scheherezade,  The 51 

Miracles ...  177 

Naughty  Girl 231 

Runaway  Princess,  The 183 

Secret,  A  2:^7 

Thirteen  and  Dolly 6:> 

Way  to  Sleeptown,  The 234 

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